Dearest Readers,
We are very near to the end, but I hope to stretch it out for another four chapters I think. I am as reluctant to leave the story as I was reluctant to leave Narnia. There are more fan fiction adventures to be had, but none quite so… personal and poignant as this one. I hope you guys will follow me to other tales of adventure or to my blog—because as much as I hate leaving Narnia, I hate leaving my readers even more. Your support has always meant so much. Ugh, this is starting to feel like a goodbye! Nope, nope, nope, not yet. I'll save it for the real end.
Love,
Pip
PS: See the end of the chapter for personal replies to your reviews
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Strange Things Happen
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Chapter 21
Within Starlight and Sunrises
Lucy and I were just settling into bed when there came a rap on the door.
"Yes?" we said in unison.
"It's warm out tonight," came Caspian's voice. "If you'd like, you can come sleep out on the deck."
Lucy and I glanced at each other, grinning. "That sounds marvelous," Lucy said, instantly slipping her feet out and into a pair of slippers. "I was just wondering if it was going to get stuffy."
I was already uncomfortably hot but hadn't wanted to complain, so I was glad for the alternative. We opened our door, and Caspian swooped in, grasping the mattress to pull it out onto the deck. I helped grab the other side (feather beds are, though small, ridiculously heavy) and helped maneuver it. As we pushed it through the door I kept yelling "Pivot! Pivot!" much to Caspian's annoyance and Lucy's amusement.
We finally got it out the door and let it fall with a thmp, and Lucy and I pushed it out of the walkway by the base of the mast. Twilight was falling over a gold and crimson sunset, and all around the ship, people were bringing out their blankets and pillows. Some were trying to string up their hammocks from the mast to the railing and not having much luck.
"You know you lot still need to give us some room to make the ship sail on," Geoff said, slightly crankily.
"You'll have plenty of room," Aemon replied. "Just think of it as an obstacle course."
("Do they have obstacle courses regularly in Narnia?" I whispered to Lucy.)
"If I step on someone's face, I hope it's yours."
"Have a little respect for each other, Men of Narnia," Reepicheep scolded down from the crow's nest, where he was perched with Klaire. "You sound like children."
"The nightcrawlers are not very noisy… usually," I told Lucy, "They don't yell and scream at each other like day crew does. We'll sleep fine."
Lucy let herself fall face-down into the feather mattress with a happy sigh. I flopped down beside her and we draped a thin sheet over us. The air was tangy with sea-salt, and the rocking motion as we hit a few choppy waters died down to nothing. In fact, the ship ceased rocking altogether.
"This is a strange feeling," I heard Caspian whisper. "Almost as if we walk on land again. What is it?"
"No waves," Drinian replied in a queer tone. "Look at the bow. It looks like glass out there."
There were whispers and snickers long into the night. No one minded being awake, and though they worked all day, none of the crew felt very tired. In fact, everyone lounging and stargazing seemed to satisfy a desire for rest and sleeping seemed unnecessary. The Lord Rhoop, still scarred and fearful from his living on the nightmare island, took to sleeping in the belly of the ship and coming out only for meals. He had no desire to look over the railing and feel the fresh air.
It was the same the next night, and the next. For several days, we pulled our sleeping materials out onto deck and laid under the stars. We began to see constellations that the Narnians had never seen before. The last recognizable ones were a badger, a cornucopia, and something that looked exactly like Orion's Belt, but they called it The Faun and his Bow. After those, the constellations were so bright that our resident star-chart-artists Pan and Teeth could hardly pinpoint which were stars and which were planets in the far sky. Sometimes the moon dipped so low to the horizon it looked like we might be able to sail to the edge of the world and then bump into the rocky crevices on the sides. I brought out my sketchbook and tried to help them as best I could, but they remained mathematically disproportioned and they couldn't find much use for them. I did feel some gratification, though, when they took my papers and added them to the scrolls in Drinian's cabin for "historic reference". At least I'd leave something behind—
With a pang, I felt that the closer we drew to the edge of the earth, the closer my end would be. After my thoughtless removal of future knowledge, I had no clue when that end might come or if I would have a chance to say goodbye. They didn't get to say goodbye on their first adventure. What if the same thing happened to me?
One night, our mattress and hammocks lay abandoned as we all stared over the bow, mouths hanging open and eyes reflecting orange. The sunset was so largely incredible, the highest of the heights in deep crimson and purple, and stars were twinkling out of the depths. The lower sky, meeting the edge of the sea, looked to be on fire and the flames were whipped clouds instead of embers and coals. "I feel like if I turn my back," I said out loud, "That sky is just going to turn into a giant tsunami and wipe us all out with molten gold."
Caspian, always the people-pleaser, nodded fervently. "It does seem like that, doesn't it?"
"I'd be a rich man if a wave of gold hit me," Rhince said, bitterly.
"Land ho!" cried Klaire.
It happened upon us so suddenly that Caspian and Drinian instantly recalculated the speed of the Treader—the smooth sailing over these waters were causing us to go much faster than usual. They measured things in knots or something… I don't recall, but I would have placed us—for readers who aren't sailors—around thirty-five miles per hour. That's pretty fast for a sailing ship of this size, I think.
The island was a large one, perhaps another small continent, and we drew up against the black rocks of the coast within minutes. It had gently sloping hills, no jagged-edged mountains. If anything, it reminded me of pictures I had seen of the Ireland coast, with emerald grasses carpeted down the embankments to the dark coastal beaches, mostly made of gravel and tide pools and not of sand.
A pleasant smell was coming from the island, but we couldn't tell if it was natural or produced by human hands. It could have been a type of flower, or perhaps a type of crop, but either way we all took a deep breath and couldn't determine what it was.
"It's a dim, purple sort of smell," Lucy described.
Edmund chuckled and shook his head, and Rhince rolled his eyes.
"I know what you mean," Caspian said kindly, and he gave Edmund a look that reminded me distinctly of Peter Pevensie.
We sailed around the cape, docked in a shallow bay, and after a long and hazardous rowing (the water was so shallow that we had to walk the last several yards out of the water and onto shore) we clambered out of the gentle waves and onto the gravel, which instantly gave way to a grassy hill covered in short, flowering brushes.
"Ooh, heather," said Lucy, picking one of the flowers.
"That's not heather," Eustace said quickly. At our looks, he said quickly, "I study a lot. You know, in the old life. Insects and plants—I have a good memory of botany."
"I've told ye got an eye fer herbology," I croaked in a Mad-Eye-Moody voice.
"What's herbology?" asked
"I don't know," I shrugged. "Study of herbs?"
As we came into the middle of the field, thirty-foot gray figures rose into the distance, nestled in the valley of two slopes like the one we trekked now. Reepicheep and Edmund drew their swords.
"Perhaps they are giants," Edmund said in a low tone.
"Best way to find out is to go among them!" declared Reepicheep, scampering far ahead of us.
"Best to be prepared, of course," Caspian said to me, "But I am getting the feeling we shall meet no danger here."
"They're towers," Lucy said chidingly, calling ahead to the Mouse. "Perhaps ruins. But they aren't giants."
We came into a wide, rectangular space, paved with flagstones, and surrounded on all sides by the tall gray pillars. There was no roof overhead, it was more like a Greek ruin from the history books. It could have been a courtyard long ago.
In the center, there was a table laden with food on plates and platters, with goblets and pitchers and ridiculous displays of fruit and vegetables coming out of cornucopias and baskets. One end of it was completely covered in some sort of bramble, but the end closest to us remained clear and the food looked as fresh as if it had been set out minutes ago.
"A feast fit for kings," said Drinian gruffly.
"Where are the guests, then?" Eustace asked.
"We can provide that," Rhince said quickly.
Everyone standing behind him, Ave, Neil, Bastian, and the rest, (the nightcrawlers, Tusk, Rynelf, Baron, Bastian, Orpheus for a guard, and the Lord Rhoop remained on board) all seemed to murmur their assent. The feast looked too good to pass up, and everyone was getting a little tired of the dried vegetables, canned goods, and crated fruit.
"Look at those," Edmund pointed quickly to the things I had thought were bramble growing over the end of the table.
"Beavers!" squeaked Lucy. "Or… or not," she added, disappointedly. We stepped through the pillars and came around the edges of the table, examining the big piles of tangled hair, much like enchanted ivy that had died and turned brown, or alfalfa for horses after the bale had been broken apart.
There were three men seated at the table, sleeping with their heads in their plates, their hair growing so long that they had all intermingled with each other and created a giant bird's nest. Reepicheep leaped onto the table, dancing nimbly between cups and plates, till he was close enough to poke one of the sleeper's on top of the head.
"These will not fight, I think," he declared.
"Are they dead?" Caspian asked.
Reepicheep lifted, with some effort, one of the hands concealed under the piles of hair. "I think not. The hand is warm, sire, and a pulse remains."
Drinian checked the other two. "And the same here."
"They're only asleep?" asked Eustace.
"That's a bloody long lie-in," Edmund pointed out, "If their hair grew while they slept."
"Or they belong to a club of exceptionally long beards," I said, "And they meet for a monthly meeting and will sometimes fall asleep while discussing their beards."
Neil snorted. As the baldest man on board, he couldn't imagine anyone discussing hair for a length of time whatsoever.
"If it is an enchanted sleep, then perhaps we are here to break the spell," Lucy pointed out. "It wouldn't be the first time Aslan sent Narnians to break an enchantment…"
"We can try," Caspian said. With a rather adorable naivety, his solution was to walk to the nearest sleeper and shake his shoulders soundly, saying, "HELLO? HELLO? SIR?"
"I'll go eastward no more," whispered the man in his sleep, "Out oars for Narnia…" then he let out a loud snore. The other two rendered the same result, "Get to the east," said the second, and the third said, "Pass the mustard."
"I'm sorry, but they have mustard in Narnia?" I whispered to Eustace.
"I was just thinking the same thing! No Consul, but they have mustard!" Eustace giggled.
"No telegrams, but they have mustard!" I chortled.
Caspian was examining the rings on the hands that Reepicheep had extracted from the hair. "These are their insignias," Caspian said, his voice betraying the depth of relief that he was feeling at this moment. "These are our last three lords. This is the Lord Revilian, the Lord Argoz, and the Lord Mavramorn." He set the last hand down, back onto the table. "Our journey has been successful," he sighed, grinning slowly.
"Begging your Majesty's pardon," Rhince said, "But it isn't every day where a feast like this appears—perhaps we could…"
"Not on your LIFE!" declared Caspian loudly. "It is, certainly, the food that is enchanted! Unless you don't want to return to Narnia, of course?"
"That's right," Jekyll said from the back. "That food'll introduce you to eternal sleep, it will."
"Quite right," chimed in the rest. Pan shook his head as if he knew something everyone else was too blind to notice.
"There's too much magic here," offered Aemon. "We'd best get back on board as soon as possible."
"Depend upon it, that the food causes an enchanted sleep," agreed Reepicheep, and no one bothered to argue, "But the decision of returning to the ship still lies with the King."
Aemon turned red. "Right…"
"Back to the ship, anyhow," muttered Ave.
"They may be right," Edmund stepped out of hearing-distance to have a small conference with Caspian. "We can't go too much good here while it is growing much darker and we are not familiar with the area yet… We can return in the morning if there is no point in staying tonight. I think—though it might just be me—the whole places smells of magic and danger. We can at least send the girls back."
Caspian glanced over his shoulder at us. In unison, Lucy and I crossed our arms over our chests and gave him defiant expressions. We DARE you to try and send us back, your Worshipfulness.
"You know I appreciate your advice above all others," Caspian replied quietly, "And while I am at a loss for what to do, I think it is your plan that we will follow. We can return in the morning." To the crew, he said loudly, "We shall return to the ship for nightfall, and my officers and I will return tomorrow and determine what to do with our sleeping lords."
The crew muttered with relief.
"I agree with your opinion as it applies to the ship's company," Reepicheep said shrilly, "But I myself—with your majesties agreement—will stay at this table till sunrise."
"Why on earth?" erupted Eustace.
"This is an adventure," Reepicheep replied, "And no danger seems as great as knowing that I may return to Narnia and had ignored this mystery out of mere fear."
"Well, once you put it that way, O Mouse of many words," I said grimly.
"I'll stay, then," Edmund said. "If you want to."
"And I," Caspian said.
"And me," Lucy said.
"And me," Eustace said.
"Good on you, Eus," said Edmund, patting his shoulder. "You are brave."
Eustace looked as if he had just been handed the whole world. He had rarely, if ever, received praise from the cousin that he clearly idolized and had disguised those feelings with dislike and jealousy. Being complimented by him for something as foreign as bravery was probably the best thing anyone could say to him. On that thought alone, he could probably do great things in his life. Whether or not he returned to Narnia.
I realized that the sailors were gloomily walking out of the plaza, having nodded curt goodbyes to us as if they expected to find our bodies in the morning. Drinian and Caspian were having a heated argument—Caspian wanted to stay, Drinian wanted Caspian to return to the ship, with the reason of "you are not expendable to our country".
Lucy and Edmud were both looking at me.
"Are you going with them, Pippin?" Lucy asked, pointing at the disappearing backs of the sailors.
"Coming, or what?" Aemon called back.
I started to form some excuse of Tusk needing me in the kitchen. I wasn't afraid of the dark, just afraid of what might be waiting in it. "Uh, yes, I mean," I said. I looked at Edmund with a half-hearted smile. "Well, there you have it. Future knowledge erasure shows you my true colors. I'm a coward."
"You're not a coward," Reepicheep exclaimed loudly.
"Maybe not," I said, wringing my hands. "Um—Aemon—make my excuses to Tusk. Sorry…" my palms were sweaty. "Uh—I'll stay. It seems worse to return and wonder what is happening here. I'd rather see it instead of hearing about it."
Edmund smiled. "I didn't doubt you for a second."
"I do," I replied.
The sailors began disappearing towards the bay.
"We will return for you at dawn," Drinian said gruffly, and he was the last to leave.
We settled around the table, finding places to sit nearer to the sleepers than we would have liked (their presence was quite eerie) but not to close to the end of the table, which would place us uncomfortably close to the edge of the plaza, and therefore, the darkness beyond. Caspian had lit a tiny lantern and set in on the table.
It was nearly ten o'clock, and that fiery sunset had burned away unnoticed. The strange new constellations burned in odd shapes, and the clouds almost had a greenish tint where the black clouds still bore highlights from the sun already set.
"I'd feel much better if the stars were still the Leopard, the Ship, and the others," Lucy said, gazing upward.
"It is odd having an unfamiliar sky," Caspian said. "I just hope it does not make sailing back harder."
It was good to hear that Caspian hadn't given up hope of return.
We wrapped our cloaks around our shoulders and waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. It was pitch black out, with nothing but the feeble lantern flame in our midst and the sounds of the waves lapping at the shore. The feeling of magic dimmed with the wearing of time, until we just felt tired and cold. Reepicheep's idea of adventure was more like an uncomfortable camp out where someone forgot the tent and the insulated sleeping bags.
"Thirty white horses upon a red hill," I blurted, "Now they champ, now they stamp, and now they stand still. What am I?"
"A cavalry," Reepicheep declared.
"A red hill," Caspian repeated slowly. "Like a dais. A mural behind a throne? Where a king stamps—ooh! A royal seal! The wax is red…"
"And he's ordering a cavalry of his finest white stallions," Reep added.
"Wrong, and wrong," I snickered.
"Teeth," Edmund said.
"What about him?" asked Caspian, mistaking him for bringing up our crew member.
"No—the answer is teeth. White teeth—red hill is tongue—they're champing…"
"Oooooh," Caspian replied. "I see! Very clever, did you make it up yourself?"
"Heavens, no," I said, "I read it somewhere…"
"I've got one," Lucy said brightly, "Invisible yet not of magic, livelihood and sometimes sick, only use of the lowest layer, gives us life and yet we offer no prayer. What am I?"
"A ghost?" Eustace said.
"A dufflepud," Edmund snorted.
"A soul!" Reepicheep said.
Caspian snapped his fingers. "Air! Invisible, not magic, we breathe it, though sometimes diseases are carried upon it, it gives us life but it is not a deity. Yes?!"
"Yes!" Lucy laughed, and we clapped for Caspian.
"A dufflepud?" I repeated to Edmund, "Really?"
"First thing that popped into my mind," he replied, and we all laughed the harder. When our chuckles finally died down, the silence pressed in on us, and the darkness seemed worse than before.
"Does anyone else feel homesick?" I asked quietly.
"No," said both Pevensies and Scrubb in unison.
"I am eager to return to Narnia," said Caspian, "But I am eager to see this through to the end, as well."
"Eagerness aside—aren't you homesick?" I prodded.
A pause. "Yes," Caspian admitted, "I miss Narnia."
"I miss her, too," said Reepicheep.
"This is my home," Lucy said. "Even if we're not exactly there—but being so close to Aslan's country makes up for it, I think. The adventure makes up for not actually being there. And—no offense, Eustace—but I don't exactly miss the Scrubb home."
"You're not the only one," Eustace laughed. "I miss the comforts of home, of course, but going back to regular old boring life with Mum and Dad after this…"
"Mum and Dad?" Edmund echoed. "You called them Mum and Dad! You always called them Alberta and Harold before. Trying to be all 'modern' or something."
"Well, I've changed, haven't I?" Eustace asked, a little sharply.
"Of course you have," Reepicheep said comfortingly.
"Do you miss your home, Pippin?" asked Caspian quickly.
"I miss my family," I said, "Kind of. I love them, I mean, but… I was feeling pretty smothered at home. A few months without them was just what I needed. But I don't think I miss my world in its entirety. If I could bring my family here, I'd never return."
Caspian hmm'd thoughtfully. "So, your true home is where your family is, and not where you live."
I nodded. "Perhaps. You know… when I ended up in Narnia… I was at a carnival with my family. I had gone off to do my own thing, and they were waiting for the fireworks. I kind of wish I had said goodbye, you know, before accidentally getting thrown into Narnia. I just… I didn't know I wouldn't be seeing them for months and months." I bit my lip. "Okay, I really wish I had said farewell properly. And when I return… I'll rejoin them and watch the fireworks… and try to act like none of this has happened."
"That's always the hardest thing," Edmund said. "Pretending none of it happened."
"Why?" Caspian exclaimed. "Why not tell your whole family of your adventures? It doesn't seem right to keep it from them! Why, they don't even know—I mean—the heroism, your titles—Edmund, you're a king, for Aslan's sake…"
"I don't think you get it," I said drearily, "If you talked about talking animals and Narnia and becoming kings and queens of a magical country that you could only get to when a Lion called you to it—you'd be locked away. It would be straight-jackets, insane asylums, and doctor's appointments for the rest of your life."
"Why would they not trust you?" Caspian asked sadly. "What a terrible world in which your word is not considered honorable!"
"They wouldn't trust what we said because of facts," I said. "And the facts of the world from which Edmund, Lucy, Eustace and I come from is that there is no magic, no talking animals, no nothing. It's just science and technology and politics and religion and nothing Narnia-ish at all."
"I don't know if that is quite true," Lucy spoke up. "Last Sunday—oh dear, I guess it would be the last Sunday before we came here—many Sundays ago—we sat in church with the Scrubbs, and I remember the Reverend saying something about The Great Lion or something. I don't recall the details but I remember feeling a warmth in the room that was not there before. It seemed very Narnian for a moment."
"First time I could ever say 'that may have been an unhappening' and be happy about it," Edmund pointed out. "Pippin did say it was the pull of the worlds—moving from one to the other."
"Sort of," I said.
"I can't help but feel that sometimes, the worlds touch," Lucy said. "I think, yes, unhappenings are a form of that. But there are better things, too. Sometimes I hear a Narnian melody from a sparrow in the garden…"
"Or a Lion's roar in the exhaust of an automobile," I remembered, suddenly.
"Yes! Exactly!"
"I still think your parents should know that their children are monarchs," Caspian pouted a little. "I suppose they make you take out rubbish and cook for them?"
"Sometimes," Lucy giggled.
"Scandalous," Reepicheep laughed with her. "Imagine a King or Queen who has to work a little bit. That does nothing to improve them with experience of humility!"
"Point taken," Caspian said, returning his attention to the sky.
For a time, we star-gazed silently.
I suddenly jerked awake and realized I had dozed off. I had lain my head on Edmund's shoulder and pulled away instantly, feeling soreness in my neck from the awkward angle. I looked across the table—Caspian was sitting alertly, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Lucy was blinking, and let out a yawn. Reepicheep was gazing off into the darkness. I realized they had all been dozing too—and whatever it was that woke me had awoken them too. There was a faint gray tinge to the sky in the east—it was nearly dawn.
Something was happening.
In the side of the hill beyond the pillars, a square of light appeared as if there was a hobbit home there and the owner had the gall to install a rectangular door. Out of the opening where the light poured out, the stately shape of a woman came out. She shut the door behind her, and we blinked to adjust our eyes to the purple glare that seemed to be cast over everything now.
She approached the pillars, passed between them, and came to stand at the head of the table. She ignored the three sleepers.
Suddenly, Reepicheep, Caspian, Eustace, and Edmund were all standing, mouths agape and eyes wider than cartoons. The woman standing before us wore a long dress, the bright aquamarine color of a tropical sea, and lights twinkled in the fabric like stars. She was bare-armed and held a silver candlestick in one hand, and the flame was bright enough to light the whole setting as if it were a closed room and not an outdoor plaza. She had long, golden hair, an innocent wide-eyed expression, and I wouldn't be surprised if she knew how to surf and play beach volleyball.
Lucy and I glanced at each other, and then we stood too. But we both had the same feeling that our boys would make fools of themselves because she was pretty. Okay, I'm being casual. Pretty would be an understatement. Divine might be a better term.
The woman set the candle on the table, and the light reflected off some sort of blade. We'd never noticed it before, but there was a knife lying among the table's centerpieces. It was long and ancient looking, cruel and glittering with dark gray stone. It looked like something you could stab a ringbearer with on Weathertop.
"Travelers who have come far to Aslan's table," said the woman, and her voice was wispy and crystal-like—of bloody course it is, I thought, with a mental eye-roll. "Why do you not eat and drink?"
"Madam," said Caspian respectfully, "We feared it was the food and drink that cast our friends into an enchanted sleep."
"They have never tasted it," she replied, matter-of-factly.
"Please," Lucy attempted, "What happened to them?"
"Long ago," said the girl, "A ship came to our harbor, nearly a wreck for all these sailors had been through. The three lords came to this table and argued about the future—let us return to Narnia, said the first, Miraz may be dead. Let us stay, said the second, and finish our days in peace. But the third said, nay, let us go on, we are Telmarines—not brutes—and we shall have more adventures. The arguing grew so violent the third took up the Knife of Stone you see before you—but it was not right for him to touch it. As his fingers closed upon the hilt, a deep sleep fell upon all three. And so they shall remain until the enchantment is broken."
"What's the Knife of Stone?" asked Eustace.
Edmund shifted uncomfortably, staring at the knife.
"Do none of you know it?" asked the woman in great surprise.
"I have seen something like it before," Lucy said carefully, with a glance at Edmund, "But it is very much like the knife that the White Witch used to kill Aslan at the stone table—long ago."
"It is the same," the woman replied, and she seemed appreciative of Lucy's understanding. "And it is to be kept here in a place of honor while the world lasts."
There was a pause. Edmund, looking more vulnerable than even our brief visit to the shores of the nightmare island, spoke up. "Look," he said quickly, "I do not want to say I am a coward about eating this food or not—and I don't mean to be rude—but we've had plenty of queer adventures on this voyage and often things are not always what they seem."
I instantly thought of Deathwater and agreed whole-heartedly.
"When I look into your face I cannot help but believe everything you say," Edmund continued, "And you seem like you would be friend to us all. But," he added the last, darkly, "The last time I made such a mistake, she was a witch, and it nearly destroyed me and my family. So forgive me if I cannot trust you."
"You can't know for sure," said the woman, "You can only believe—or not."
Edmund was not satisfied with the answer, but Reepicheep seemed to be. "Sire," he said, "If you would fill a flagon with wine for me, I will gladly toast the lady's health and test the food for enchantments. It would be my honor to do so!"
Caspian sighed. "Is there no end to your honor, Mouse?" but he poured a tiny cup, and handed it to Reepicheep. He tasted the wine, smacked his whiskery lips, and beamed at us all. Then he set to a plate of cold meat, tasting it, and with a smile, bit into a peach. After a third sip of wine he nodded to Caspian. "It tastes of real, satisfying food," he declared. "And I think we'd be the better for eating of it."
"You have no reason to fear for eating at Aslan's table," said the woman, "It is by His will the food is here."
Lucy sat down and tried some of the venison, with a indignant face that seemed to say name-dropping Aslan is all I need! Caspian sat down beside her and pulled a tiny bundle of grapes out of a bowl. Reepicheep returned to his breakfast, and I slowly sat down beside Lucy. My stomach growled, and I finally gave in with a bite into a juicy, flavorful pear. Eustace went for some sort of breaded biscuit.
Edmund was the last to join.
"How does the food keep?" Eustace asked practically.
"It is eaten and renewed every day," answered the woman. "This you will see."
"That sounds very ominous," I said, putting my pear down. Yeah, I was hungry, but I was more eager to see what was eating the food other than us. Monsters? Fruit bats? A flash mob crew?
"What are we to do about the sleepers?" Caspian asked, "In the world from which my friends come," he was nodding towards me, "There is a tale of a prince—or a king—coming to the castle in which all are under an enchanted sleep. In that story he cannot dissolve the enchantment until he has kissed the Princess."
I facepalmed. Literally. Why did I tell them that story? I am suffering from extreme second-hand embarrassment right now.
Luckily Caspian did not look at me for confirmation, otherwise he would have seen my face cringing behind my hand. He had eyes only for the lady in blue, like some Disney-fied Galadriel.
She was smiling shyly at Caspian, clearly enjoying the fact that he was flirting with her. I could just imagine Drinian face-palming alongside of me.
"Here it is different," she said in reply, "Here cannot kiss the princess until he has dissolved the enchantment."
Edmund nodded as if he took this quite seriously. Lucy and I knew better—he could kiss her quite as easily now as he could later, but this girl wasn't about to be swept off her feet by any old Narnian King. She wanted him to work for it a little. Atta girl.
"Then in the name of Aslan," Caspian swore in a show of bravado and eagerness, "Show me how to set about that work at once."
Eustace snickered, but quieted instantly under the quailing stare of Reepicheep.
"My father will teach you that," said the girl.
"Your father?" I asked quickly. "So you are not alone on this island, then?" The idea that her father might be skulking around, watching us, gave me the creeps.
"Where is he?" asked Caspian.
"He's coming," said the girl, gesturing towards the hillside from where her own door had materialized. Just as she pointed, the very first glimmer of a white sunrise blushed out of the grayness of the twilight before dawn. It was easier to see the edges of the door now, tiny stripes of light in a rectangular shape. It was opening now, and a tall, slender figure stepped out of it. He could easily have been Gandalf's musical-theater inclined younger brother. (wow, I am just full of Lord of the Rings references today…)
The man wore a silver robe down to his feet, a silver beard down to his knees, and a blue cloak trailing behind—made of the same material as the girl's dress, and it too twinkled with fallen stars. His face had a graveness that reminded me of Aslan, but a mild expression that also reminded me of Coriakin.
We stood and awaited something—anything—a word, a speech, some solemn welcome to the island of Neverland or something. But he did nothing but acknowledge us with a slight nod. He walked to his daughter's side, and they clasped hands, and stood at the edge of the plaza and looked between the pillars, into the east.
They began to sing—and with the singing, I worried ever-so-slightly that a sleeping enchantment was coming over us like the three men at the table. The air grew slightly blurry and the sounds that emitted sweetly and shrilly from their tenor and soprano voices were forgotten by our minds the second they were uttered. If I could tell you anything about it, I'd say that it reminded me somehow of Reepicheep's poem… the lullaby he recited the day that Ed, Lucy, and Eustace first arrived. How long ago it seemed…
And just as the cacophony of the two voices (and I think some bird song as well) rose with the sun, and I think they sang the phrase there is the utter east, bright sunlight—gold and rosy pink—had overtaken the sky and shone brilliantly over the entire scene. It turned our hair copper and our skin yellow no matter what color we previously were.
Then from out of the sun—not near the sun, mind you, but I think directly from inside it—there came a flock of white birds, wings beating like hummingbirds. The flock grew to immeasurable size and beat the air towards us, though it was beautiful to look at, and not frightening like Hitchcock would have us believe. They landed like snow on every surface of the table, wings flapping, beaks pecking, tiny beady eyes blinking. They were robin-sized but far prettier, a cross between a swan and a snow owl. None of them came near us, but covered the table, and then when they rose in the air like seagulls startled away from the beach, the food was gone and the table cleansed by magic.
One of them had something tiny and red clenched in his beak. He came to the girl's father, and held his beak out expectantly, wings flapping in place to keep himself in flight. The old man opened his mouth, and the bird dropped the flickering red thing in. Then the man smiled, and the birds rose like a twittering afternoon fog, breaking up into little groups and disappearing into the east. We could not watch them fly away for fear of blinding ourselves in the sun, which was bigger and brighter than we had ever seen it before.
And then at once, their tweeting and sing-song whistles were hidden in the hush, hush sound of the waves breaking on the shore in their unending rhythm.
"Wow," I said, unable to think of anything more poetic.
The old man turned then, gave us notice, and held out his arms. "Welcome, Narnians," he said.
"Sir," said Caspian, bowing. We followed his example, and bowed. Well, Lucy curtseyed. I ought to have curtseyed. I didn't; I bowed, in a clumsy fashion. Oops.
"Please," continued Caspian, humbly, his eyes still trying not to settle on the beautiful girl. "Will you tell us how to break the enchantment on the three sleepers?"
"I will gladly tell you that, my son," said the man.
Son-in-law? I thought with a giggle. I could see by Caspian's wide eyes that he was hoping for that exact thing.
"To break this enchantment," said the man, "You must sail to the World's End, or as near as you can come to it, and you must come back having left one member of your company behind."
I let out an involuntary gasp—It has to be me. I knew it.
I don't want to go…
"And what happens to that one?" asked Reepicheep, hopeful.
I'm the expendable one, it will be me. It can't be the Pevensies, and it obviously can't be Caspian. The crew members are not expendable—they want to return to Narnia. I am the logical choice.
"He must go on to the utter east and never return to this world."
Never is an awfully long time… I wanted to cry, but I went cold and stiff inside, instead. I put a hand to my mouth and disguised my despair in a poorly acted cough.
"That is my hearts desire," said Reepicheep, looking to his king with a look that seemed to say 'the debate is over!'
"Are we near the world's end, sir?" asked Caspian.
"Near enough," said the man, mysteriously. "But I cannot tell you precisely—for I was looking down on the eastern edge from a great height."
"Were you—flying in the air?" asked Edmund.
"I was far above the air," said the man, "I am Ramandu."
We all glanced at each other, unknowingly.
"I see that you do not know the name—it is no wonder, for the days when I was a star ceased long before any of you knew this world, and all the constellations have changed."
"Oh," I said, "You're a star?"
"A retired star," Edmund said in awe, apparently he had heard of such a thing.
"You're not a star any longer?" asked Lucy, and you could tell by her face that she believed the saddest thing for any star would be to lose his title and live on earth instead.
"I am a star at rest, my daughter," said Ramandu. "When I was old beyond all reckoning, after my last rising I was carried and laid to rest on this island. I am not so old now as I was then. Every sunrise one of the birds brings me a fire-berry from the valleys of the sun, and it takes away a bit of my age. When I am as old as a child born yesterday, I will rise again to the heavens and once more tread the great dance." His eyes twinkled.
"In our world," said Eustace, "Stars are just flaming balls of gas. Boring in comparison, I must add," he said this sheepishly, not wanting to be insulting somehow.
"Even in your world, my son," corrected Ramandu kindly, "That is not what a star is, only what it is made of. And from what I've heard—you have already met another star on your journey. The magician, Coriakin."
"He's a star too?" I asked quickly.
"Retired and growing younger like you?" Lucy chimed in.
"Not quite—if all had gone well, he might have sat in the southern sky for many more millennia. I suppose you could call his watch over the Duffers a punishment."
"Punishment?" asked Eustace. "What happened?"
"It is not for you to know what faults a star can commit," Ramandu reprimanded gently. "But come! There are greater questions at hand! Will you go on to the world's end? Or will you sail home and westward?"
"Is there truly a question of that, Sire?" asked Reepicheep. "To me the path ahead seems clear."
"Yes, Reepicheep," Caspian said, "I want to sail on to the world's end—our task was to rescue the Lords, and here three of them lie in enchanted sleep. But I must think of the crew—they are getting weary of the voyage. They long for home and I cannot go further without all of their consent. And then there is the Lord Rhoop—it seems cruel to take him on any farther. He is a broken man."
"I agree it would be useless to sail on without the men in agreement," Ramandu said, "But who is this broken man you speak of?"
"He was trapped on an island made of his own nightmares for the last seven years," I said, knowing that I could probably give the most condensed answer. "Even though we rescued him, he is spiritually broken, physically weak, mentally scarred. He is unhappy on the sea—we feel that Narnia is the only place where he could mend. Right?" I added.
"Yes, exactly," Caspian said.
"Narnia—or a rest without nightmares?" said Ramandu. "If he is unhappy on the sea, let him join his fellow Lords here. I will put him into an enchanted sleep with them, which will lift when you return from the eastern edge. It will be a sleep without dreams or nightmares. Let him drink in the oblivion."
"I am certain he'd love that," Lucy said to me.
There was a crackling of twigs in the undergrowth, and the shuffling of many feet. Drinian and the rest of the landing party had approached the edge of the plaza, and at the sight of Ramandu and his daughter (name? anyone? Does she have one?) they all whipped their hats from their heads and stared open-mouthed while waiting for Caspian's explanation.
"Ah, Captain," Caspian said, "If you please, send two men back to the Treader and give a message to Lord Rhoop—that his companions banished by Miraz are here and resting in a blissful, enchanted sleep without nightmares or dreams, and that he is welcome to share in that sleep until we return from the eastern edge of the world, and then it will be oars for Narnia. If he will come, then escort him back."
Drinian pointed at Ave and Aemon. "Boys, if you please. Carry out the King's orders."
"Yessir," they replied in unison, slightly begrudgingly. They wanted to see what happened, but they took their leave anyhow.
"And the rest of you," said Caspian, "Please… sit down at this table, and let me explain myself."
They tried to keep their confused mutterings to a dull roar as they took seats on either sides of the table. Rhince, Drinian, Rynelf, Jekyll, Klaire, Neil, and Pan represented the day crew, and this time, Zacharius, Olan, Herring, Midge, and Persus joined them. I felt like I hadn't seen them for a long time, and couldn't help but smile widely at the sight of them. Olan winked at me as he waited for Caspian to begin.
"We have a task set before us," Caspian gestured to the three sleepers, and Persus instantly scooted closer to Midge. He hadn't realized he'd been sitting so close. "These three enchanted sleepers are the last Lords that we have set out to rescue—and they will not wake until we reach the world's edge. It is there that we must sail and then return—they will awaken—and then it will be home to Narnia. This is my desire." He looked at them calmly, and went on. "But there is another option to us. We may set sail for home now." It was abrupt, but honest. "I wish to hear your minds about this." He sat down, and waited.
There was a brief silence. And oddly enough, Pan stood up. He nervously cleared his throat, clasped his ruddy hands behind his back, and began to speak.
"What some of us have been wanting to ask for a long time, your Majesty," he asked, his voice showing his upmost respect, "is how we're ever going to get home when we do turn, whether we turn here or somewhere else. It's been west and north-west winds all the way, barring an occasional calm. And if that doesn't change, I'd like to know what hopes we have of seeing Narnia again. There's not much chance of supplies lasting while we row all that way."
I wasn't the only one who was surprised, Rhince and Rynelf's mouths had fallen open, and even the nightcrawlers look bewildered and they had interacted with Pan very little. I'm certain this was more than he'd ever said—especially to royalty—in his life.
It was insane to think that much worry had been bottled up in someone like Pan. I wondered how long he had been thinking about it, and how it must have drove him a little crazy—thinking all that but never saying it till now. It was the most I had ever heard him speak and that brought a rather nutty looking smile to my face.
"That's landsman's talk," Drinian said sternly.
"I am a faun, and I belong in the woods," Pan said, not apologizing for his limited seafaring knowledge. "Please, go on."
"There's always a prevailing west wind in these seas all through the late summer," Drinian explained, "and it always changes after the New Year. We'll have plenty of wind for sailing westward; more than we shall like from all accounts."
"That's true, Captain," said Persus, rather slyly, I might add. "You get some ugly weather rolling up from the east in January and February. And by your leave, Sire, if I was in command of this ship I'd say to winter here and begin the voyage home in March."
"Luckily you are not in command of the ship," I heard Rhince mutter to Rynelf.
"If you stayed for a whole season here, what would you eat?" Eustace asked practically, always thinking of necessities.
"The food upon this table is renewed every evening at sunrise," Ramandu had remained silent for some time, but finally chimed in.
"Now you're talking," Midge said.
"Aye," said Persus.
"I hate to say I agree with them," Neil added.
"Your Majesties, and gentlemen, and ladies all," said Rynelf, "there's just one thing I want to say. There's not one of us that were forced to make this journey… We're volunteers. The same sailors here thinking about 'king's feasts' at every sunset were the very same who spoke loudly about adventures on the day we sailed from Cair Paravel, swearing they wouldn't come home till we'd found the end of the world. And there were some standing on the quay who would have given all they had to come with us—Trumpkin, even being a dwarf an' all, would've loved to. It was thought a finer thing then to have a cabin-boy's berth on the Dawn Treader than to wear a knight's belt, if you get the hang of what I'm saying. But we who have set out will look as silly as as those Dufflepuds if we come home and say we got to the beginning of the world's end and hadn't the heart to go further."
"Amen," burst Zacharius, and Herring slapped Rynelf on the back.
"Here, here!" Drinian echoed.
"What are we going to do if some of our fellows hang back?" Ed asked Caspian in an undertone. "Won't be much fun to sail without a whole crew."
"I've got one more card to play," Caspian whispered back.
"Have you got nothing to say, Reepicheep?" asked Lucy.
"No, why should your Majesty expect it?" Reepicheep asked with surprise. "You all must know what my plans are already. I shall sail east with the Dawn Treader. When she fails me, I shall go east in my coracle. When she sinks, I shall swim east with my four paws. And when I cannot swim any longer, if I have not reached the edge of the world, I shall sink with my nose held high—and Peepiceek will be head of the Talking Mice of Narnia."
"Here, here," said Neil. "All the same for me—except for the coracle. I am too large for it." Then he hissed to his companions, "I will not be outdone by a mouse."
Caspian stood up again. "Friends," he said carefully and formally, "I think you have not quite understood our purpose. You talk as if we had come to you with our hat in our hand, begging for shipmates. It isn't like that at all. We have an errand to the world's edge. It is our pleasure to choose from among such of you as are willing those whom we deem worthy of so high an enterprise. We have not said that any can come for the asking. That is why we shall now command Captain Drinian and Master Rhince to consider carefully what men among you are the hardest in battle, the most skilled seamen, the purest in blood, the most loyal to our person; and to give their names to us in a schedule. This is a privilege, and not a demand of you, should you wish to stay behind."
"Manipulative little bast…" Persus began to whisper.
"I think the word you want is clever, sir," I said quickly before anyone heard him.
"Aslan's mane!" Caspian exclaimed, when he saw their doubtful and confused faces. "Do you think that the privilege of seeing the last things is to be bought for a song? Why, every man that comes with us shall bequeath the title of Dawn Treader to all his descendants, and when we land at Cair Paravel on the homeward voyage he shall have either gold or land enough to make him rich all his life. Now—scatter over the island, all of you. In half an hour's time I shall receive the names that Drinian brings me."
There was an awkward silence, till finally, Persus and Midge made their way out of the plaza and into the brush, standing quietly and talking in heated voices. Everyone else went in one direction or the other, some gathering in tiny groups, others sitting off by themselves, thinking carefully.
Aemon and Ave arrived, curiously glancing around at everyone and wondering why it seemed like a recess during a criminal trial. They held the Lord Rhoop supported between them, whose dark gray hair and skin made him look like a dying willow tree.
"Majesty," said Lord Rhoop, his voice exhausted. He inclined his head in a bow.
"Dear Lord Rhoop, friend of my father's, I think that we've found something for you," Caspian took Aemon's place, supporting his waist in one arm. "Let me help you down."
Ramandu's daughter took Ave's place, and together, King and Half-Star helped an old man onto the bench seat by his companions. Then Ramandu placed his hands on Rhoop's old head, and a strange silver light seemed to flow out of the tips of his fingers like liquid glass. Then Rhoop lay his head on his arms, smiled, and began to breathe the deep air of sleep. While Ramandu smiled down at his magical handiwork, Caspian and the girl glanced at each other with a look so full of unspoken words it would fill another novel.
"What a terrible time he has had," Lucy said sympathetically.
"Let's not talk about it," Eustace shuddered.
"I say," Reepicheep prodded Eustace's arm with his tiny paw. "Did I tell you of the time that I first met the young Caspian?"
"No, you haven't," Eustace said quickly, turning his full attention to Reepicheep. The Mouse began to tell him the story in a low tone, and Eustace sat with his hands around his knee in rapturous attention. It was rather adorable. Eustace had nothing but respect for him, and the change in him was so astounding it was hard to believe it sometimes.
We had a half-hour to kill, so I just continued to sit at the table, clasping my hands together and trying to ignore that I had broken into a nervous sweat. Ramandu stood at the head of the table, staring into the bright sunrise, now turning all shades of rosy pink and daisy-yellow. It almost seemed like he was in a trance and wouldn't be able to partake of any conversation that we might start with him.
The crew had scattered about the island, just like Caspian had ordered. Edmund and Lucy were sitting close to me, making their own quiet predictions of who might stay behind. Drinian made a brief return to the ship to inform those who stood guard over what had transpired.
Caspian finally drew close to the Half-Star woman, and I heard him ask, "Will you tell me your name?"
"Lillandil," she replied gracefully. "And yours?"
"Caspian," he answered just as graciously, excluding all the titles. "I was curious about your life on this island."
"I love my home," she replied, "It is peaceful to live at Aslan's threshold."
"Are you ever—lonely?"
"I admit I have dreamt of travel and making friends with other half-humans, or those who do not sit and shine in the heavens as the rest of my family do."
"Have you ever thought of visiting Narnia?"
"It has been on my mind since the Lord's mentioned this place in their argument, but I have not the means to leave. And I am a guardian of the Stone Knife."
"What should happen if you leave?"
"Well—nothing, truly. But it is a shared responsibility."
"If you wish it—my lady—upon our return, there will be a place for you on the Dawn Treader, should you wish to travel westward with us."
Lillandil fell silent. "I will think on this."
Someone suddenly elbowed me, and Aemon was sliding into the tiny space between Edmund and I, causing Edmund to move over with an annoyed sound.
"You shouldn't eavesdrop," he said to me.
I ignored that. "Did someone catch you up on what Caspian said?"
"Herring filled us in."
"And?"
"And what?"
"Staying or going?"
"It's not really up to us, now, is it? But yes, if they'll have me. I'll go on."
"Why not stay?" Persus came to our group. He even, begrudgingly, nodded at me. "You'd be welcome, too, Pippin. Stay. Winter here on the island and go home in the spring."
"You don't want to go on?" I exclaimed. "Why not?"
"I've no mind to sail off the edge of a map," Persus shook his head as if we were all fools to think otherwise. "If you lot had any sense, you'd see that Caspian's just trying to manipulate you into wanting to go."
"And for those of us who already want to go, it just adds a little incentive," Aemon said with a yawn. "…and it's still 'King' Caspian, Persus. In case you hadn't noticed."
"His Majesty is full of daydreams but lacks vision," Persus said determinedly. "I hope to make the others see sense." He turned and marched, with Midge behind him, over to the group where Pan, Neil, Klaire, and the rest were huddled about talking in low tones. I could see him animatedly trying to convince them to stay behind. Most of them reacted with frowns and head-shakes, and some of them—like Herring and Zacharius—with pure disgust. He even seemed to be accidently convincing the unsure ones to go on. Pan, despite his misgivings, suddenly seemed very resolute to go on to the edge of the world.
The minutes dragged by, and eventually, Persus was the only one who wanted to stay behind. "Midge," he said, in a desperate tone that I almost felt sorry for, "Are you casting in with this lot or staying?"
Midge shrugged and avoided his gaze. "Safety in numbers, and the numbers are going east," he said casually.
"Well, fine, then," Persus sighed and threw up his hands. "I jolly well won't be here alone with three—er, four—sleeping men. I might as well go on." He said this as if we had begged him to come with us. "I'll sail east."
Eventually the rest of the crew began to shuffle back into the plaza, having calculated a rough half-hour had passed. The sky was lightening into the haze of clouds, and what was once rose and yellow was beginning to part away to reveal blue sky behind it. It was going to be a dazzling morning.
Caspian waited until all had returned, and Drinian had been lurking around the island for some time. When he returned from the ship, he had hovered—unnoticed—on the path to the shore, listening in on conversations and taking mental note of the sailor's true feelings. Then he approached Caspian at the table, and they had a whispered conversation.
"Drinian informs me that all—all—the crew wish to go on," Caspian said this carefully, like a politician about to announce the passing of a bill. "And those who are true of intention will go on. Mr. Pittencream, if I may speak to you privately for a moment?"
Persus's head shot up, and his gaze hardened. "Yes, your majesty," he said suspiciously, following Caspian's beckoning over to the other end of the plaza, where they could speak unheard.
Drinian addressed those of us left. "The rest of you will journey eastward."
The crew let out an involuntary cheer—even Midge participated.
"His last name is Pittencream?" I whispered to Aemon. "This whole time—he had a name like that—and I let him tease me?!"
"Persus James Pittencream," Aemon recited drolly. "We were not to speak of it under threat of torture."
"He threatened to torture you?"
"In a manner of speaking. We had no reason to break his trust. Of course, the King didn't know about that…"
"Oops," I giggled. "Poor Persus."
Persus turned away from Caspian and walked like a man sentenced to a hanging as he came back to the table, ignoring the loud conversations all around him. I was surprised when he sat beside Aemon and I.
"His Majesty informs me I am to stay behind," he said, shortly.
I was shocked. "Really?" Caspian wants to leave a man behind?!
"Yes."
"You wanted to stay behind, don't tell me you're disappointed," Aemon exclaimed. "You should be happy!"
"I am happy," Persus said, "But I'd prefer staying by my own choice and not feel like I'm being punished somehow."
Aemon and I gave each other a look.
"I feel like no matter how it wouldn't turned out, you would've found a reason to complain about it," I said, honestly. "If something isn't exactly on your terms, you're unhappy about it, even if it's what you wanted."
"And it's ridiculous," Aemon added. It was rare that we ever agreed on anything, and I made a mental note to write down the date in my sketchbook journal that this was a day where our opinions finally coincided.
That day, under a brilliant sun and cerulean blue sky, we prepped the Dawn Treader for continuing into the east. There was fresh water on this island, and each water-drum was filled to the brink. Persus brought his belongings off the ship and began to construct a shelter in a copse near some trees and boulders. Ramandu went to him and asked him to join him and his Star-Daughter in their home, instead. Persus refused, at first.
It took the Lillandil herself to seek out Persus and invite him, oh-so-politely, to stay in their hillside-home with them until we returned. There was a guest room, she said, and as comfortable as a hole in the ground could be. I pictured hobbit halls—since the door opened into the hillside—only much taller passageways. They did not invite my curious nature to look inside so I'll have to leave it to imagination.
Persus said yes because he's a man and she's a beautiful woman and he just couldn't… say… no.
When the sun set over the plaza for a second time, the empty table shimmered in the rays of light, and after blinking a few times, we realized it was again full of food worthy for a King and his consorts. I wondered how many house elves were at work here.
Ramandu asked us to stay, eat, and continue on in the morning. We complied, and for awhile it was like one big family. Caspian felt we did not need a guard on the ship, so all the crewmen joined us (yes, even Persus) and we all sat down and enjoyed the feast. It was like the best Thanksgiving ever with far less drunk relatives and no tearful speeches. Although Orpheus and Olan, once they got to talking, did begin to sound like that pair of loud uncles that try to out-eat each other. Quieter people, like Thornton, Teeth, and Pan, sat at the farthest end where they didn't have to make conversation with the four sleepers.
When night began to fall in a navy blue blanket over the scene, Flanagan played his flute, and Persus disappeared from the table. I think he wanted to avoid goodbyes.
Most of us listened to the music, but I noticed Caspian sitting very close to Lillandil, and they were speaking in hushed tones.
"When we return," Caspian was saying, "I would very much like to speak to you more…"
She was smiling—no, make that beaming—at him. "I would like that, too," she said.
I elbowed Edmund, gesturing with my eyes toward the sudden blossoming of puppy love. Edmund tried to look at them casually without giving it away.
"I think we might be in the presence of a future Queen of Narnia," he mused.
"Imagine Galma's shock and gossip when he passes through again with her and I'm not even on board anymore," I snickered.
"What do you mean?" Ed asked. "Where are you going?"
"Oops," I thought, out-loud.
"You're not—thinking of staying behind, are you?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? It's got to be me. The crew is needed, you guys just got here, it seems—Reepicheep thinks it is him but I cannot imagine him not being in the story from now on."
"You can't go off to the edge of the world by yourself."
"I'll be safe…"
"It's not that. I don't think it's meant to be you. That's rubbish!"
"I keep telling you, I'm the expendable one…"
"I wish you'd stop saying that!"
"It's not self-deprecation or no self-confidence. I think it's the truth. I'm not in the book, you know. Or at least—I'm certain I'm not. If I leave, things can continue on as they're meant to." I tried to pick a grape off the pile of fruit in the middle of the table, but it detached from the stalk and rolled away before I could catch it.
"Maybe—but perhaps that no longer applies, since you can't remember the book anyway—why are you still trying to play by its rules? Seems so silly that some book from our world has caused so much trouble."
"I really do think it's supposed to be me, Edmund," I said, sadly. "I love… love this world. But I'll never belong in it." The grape came rolling back, and landed perfectly in my outstretched fingers. "Case in point."
"I want you to promise me something."
"Okay?" I said uncertainly.
"I don't think you should volunteer to go. If they ask you to go, then so be it. But don't tell any one of your suspicions. If Caspian receives some word from Aslan and wants you to be the one that stays behind, I won't argue. But if not…"
"Don't seal the deal by volunteering to stay behind first-off?" I finished.
"Yeah."
"All right… I guess. I promise."
…
Next chapter: A voyage continued in strange white seas…
Reviewer replies
TryingNotToFall: Aw you're so kind ;)
MBilmey: Thank-you for such a thoughtful review! I love your reviews! I miss interacting with you on tumblr, hopefully I'll be back soon. Also that Doctor Who nightmare sounds like a good story—why don't you turn it into a fic? I'd read it! I think all fandom-related dreams should become stories!
Penspot: I'm glad you liked it. I am trying to abide by the great advice of writer Joss Whedon (The Avengers, Firefly, Buffy, etc) "Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke." It's my favorite.
GoTeamSkipper: I wondered if you caught that bit about Tom. :) When I read that quote in the book I did a face palm because I realized I should have named Robin Tom from the getgo. But I guess a middle name is as good as any! But yes, it was interesting to examine my greatest fears and choose the right ones for storytelling. As you can see, spiders don't exactly make for compelling hallucination sequences… haha
Guest: Oh, dear anonymous friend, why are you so awesome? You should login so I can follow your account! Anywho, thanks so much for your review. And you know what I have ALSO wondered what me and Peter Pan would be like. Lord knows I've been imagining it since I was about 5 years old. I believed in him one hundred percent! I even saw a cloud formation that looked exactly like the pirate ship when I was little which further cemented my belief.
Silimaira: Thank-you for seeing those! I went back and made corrections and now it's in ship-shape. It's not like you're getting paid or anything so I really do appreciate your help in being my sort of unofficial typo spotter :)
Softballgirl: It pleases me that I made you laugh like a maniac ;) one of my goals in life is to make more people laugh!
Note to all readers:
If I were to make a sequel to this story… er, complete the trilogy I guess… what would the title be? Just a thought. Nothing official. Just throwing the question to the wind… and you.