I wake up coughing. Chest heaving erratically, spewing water next to a shallow puddle that had already established itself due to my dripping form, my eyes stay shut tight to keep out the sickness and the dread of what I'll find when they reluctantly open. I gulp in as much crisp, salty air as I can while gathering the courage to face my surroundings. My irregular heartbeat, though near deafening as it pounds in my ears, isn't enough to block out my other senses; something rough is digging into my palm splayed flat on the floor and the scents of wood and the ocean are overwhelming, far too vivid to be a dream. As I gradually adjust, I focus on what I can hear.
Wind billowing fabric.
Steadily rushing water.
Shuffling footsteps.
Many, many voices.
Fingers curl around my elbow, gently tugging upwards to encourage the rest of my body to follow. Once I'm standing, albeit unsteadily, I open my eyes and immediately stumble back, gasping. Standing before me is a hulking, hairy and hideous minotaur. "Are you alright, miss?" It says gruffly, but with a level of empathy I wouldn't have believed possible. Though I hadn't believed a painting becoming a portal to the middle of the ocean was possible, either. Instead of replying, I choose to survey my surroundings.
Over a dozen human faces stare back at me with varying degrees of curiosity and concern, on top of half a dozen unhuman faces, and in the gaps between the wall of bodies surrounding me I glimpse the sky, still displaying its stunningly vibrant shades. It was enough to convince me that I had really entered the painting I adore so much – it wasn't a sight to be replicated in some kind of maddeningly realistic hallucination. That and the minotaur, of course. "Is she deaf?" The minotaur asks, again with a jarringly gentle tone so oppositional to its threatening presence.
"N-No. I'm not." I say, the words leaving dry and weak, as if somebody scraped the inside of my throat with sandpaper.
"Where did you come from?" Asked a man, stepping through the crowd so he faced me directly. He was imposingly tall with a bald head, square face and features so sharp they could cut. Most importantly, he was angry.
"Drinian, that can wait. If she stays in those wet clothes she'll fall ill." I turn to face the new speaker, the man whose hand was still on my elbow. Does he think I'm going to try and run away? On a ship? I think. He's as soaked through as I am, and I distantly piece together that I have him to thank for not letting me drown in unknown waters. His hair, the same shade as the chestnut brown ship, was plastered to his cheeks and dripping water on the towel draped over his shoulders while his clothes, a midnight blue poet shirt and black breeches, were like a second skin against his lean form. Despite the dying light painting his features in gold, his eyes are such a deep brown it's hard to see where his pupil starts and his iris stops.
The man now known as Drinian nods before calling for the crowd to disperse, and I'm led across deck through a door at the stern which blunts the raging wind but retains the creaking floorboards. As we travel down a corridor and into a semi-circular room with windows currently half submerged in the ocean, casting spiderwebbed light fractures across the floor, the man introduces himself as King Caspian of Narnia and apologises for the unintentional intimidation from the crew. He strides confidently across the room to a wardrobe, removing some clothes for himself before stepping away, gesturing for me to come in. The boat rocks unsteadily underneath my feet and I can't find the right balance to stop myself tipping too far against each ebb and flow over the waves, making me stumble awkwardly into a table. Caspian clears his throat, trying to hold back a laugh. "I'll leave you to get dressed and then we'll talk, miss…?"
"Amber. Amber Blackwill."
"Well, Miss Blackwill, I'll see you in 10 minutes or so. Leave your wet clothes on the side, somebody will dry them for you." He leaves the room, trailing water behind him. I'm envious at how he glides as if the boat isn't constantly trying to throw him off balance, but at least now I can stagger across the (mercifully obstacle free) space like a drunk in peace. From the wardrobe I take a purple shirt with sleeves I have to fold over three times before I can use my hands and brown breeches that hang to my ankles, secured tightly to my waist with a double buckled belt. Once I'm dressed, I curl up on the cushioned bench beside the windows and let reality roll over me.
Where the bloody hell am I?
I try to get my current situation to sink in, spiralling me into a frenzy that sends me screaming at the top of my lungs, off the deck and back into the water, but all I feel is numb. As if I'm just directing my body around on puppet strings, no emotions attached. Maybe I'm dead. Maybe I've become another casualty of war and this is the afterlife, but a near-death experience doesn't seem the right way to begin a journey like that. I'm not sure what would. One thing I accept, somehow, is that I've entered the painting from the gallery. Both the sky and what I managed to see of the dragon shaped bowsprit before being moved inside is enough to confirm it, but how? Perhaps death takes us where we most wanted to be while we were living, though the fact that I would choose an endless expanse of oil paint and isolation over my family doesn't sit easy with me. There's a knock on the door and Caspian enters a few moments after, taking his time across the entryway to give me time to cover myself if I had yet to finish dressing. At least the afterlife has cute kings, I consider briefly.
"How are you feeling?" He asks, sitting on the opposite side of the bench.
"Where am I?" I reply immediately, ignoring his question. My voice is stronger now. I'm not confident this period of numbness will last so I only have a limited amount of time to get off this boat and back to London before I melt down, meaning I need answers about what's going on right now. He startles at my eagerness but recovers quickly, only to be held off from responding by two men entering the room. One of them, who I know to be Drinian, walks to us and stands before the bench while the second collects my waterlogged clothes and slips out. I stare after him, unblinking. Instead of fleshy human legs, what should have been attached to his torso, there were goat legs. For some reason it's more surprising than the minotaur. Probably because I share half of what that faun has, and yet have no idea how it can live with hooves – I hold back a grimace.
"You're on the silver sea, travelling from Narnia to the Lone Islands." I blink stupidly. I should've read the newspaper more, or paid attention in Geography, or just owned a stupid map, because I have no idea where any of those places sit in the world. Austria? Has Narnia been annexed by the Germans? They might throw me overboard when they find out I'm British or keep me as a prisoner or sell me into slavery. Are minotaurs Austrian? Drinian and Caspian share a glance, then Drinian steps forward, halting my inner ramble.
"Miss Blackwill, how did you come to be in the ocean thousands of miles from land and with no boat in sight?" Good question. I have absolutely no idea, is what I want to say. The way he phrases it as an impossible situation begs for an unbelievable tale, which in this case the truth is exactly that, but I'm once again plagued by images of them tossing my body to the sharks if I say, 'I fell through a magical painting in rural London', so I keep quiet.
"Are you…" Caspian begins hesitantly, avoiding Drinian's eye. "From England?" There's something about his demeanour that's changed, transformed by what I think could be hope. He's leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped in front, with his mouth slightly open as if a victorious grin is just on the horizon depending on my answer. I feel my own hope raise its weary head.
"Yes. London, specifically." His smile changes his face completely, making him seem younger though I've yet to determine how old he is to begin with. He looks to Drinian excitedly, who remains stoic and unphased.
"Do you know the Pevensies?" He leans closer, one 'yes!' short of bouncing in his seat like a schoolboy, but unfortunately –
"I've never heard the name before, sorry." I say, making him visibly deflate. Neither of the men talk for a while, seemingly lost in thought.
"I really need to get back, actually. Is there any way you can take me there? There's a port by Southend-on-Sea that would do just fine." Caspian raises his head from where it was bowed over his knees and gives me a pitying look.
"I'm afraid Narnia is of a different world to your home. There's no one way to get back."
"Perhaps if you told us how you got here?" Drinian cuts in, softer this time.
"I must look wary, because Caspian cuts in again, "I assure you nothing you say will be impossible here." I take a deep breath, then tell them everything.