Hi, all. Very sorry about the insane length of time but my boss literally, nonironically, fell off a cliff nearly to their death so I've been. Um. Busy and overwhelmed.
But my boss is back so I'm back down to merely 'whelmed,' and hopefully I can get back in the saddle for all my writing projects.
All that being said, this is part 1 of 2; this chapter just got too long so has to be split into two, and the second part will be up as soon as I finish writing it, which with any luck will be in a couple of days.
As always, please review! Thanks!
Grey England 10: Lucy Alone
The rumble of thunder and darkening sky should have served as a portent, but Lucy was engrossed in filling another notebook, and didn't notice. The notebook, with crisp smooth pages and a beautiful cover, was courtesy of her beloved brother Peter. He'd dropped by earlier to congratulate her on her recent academic successes.
It had been terribly thoughtful of him to visit her. True, he'd come to the village to see a friend before he went back to university, but he'd worked in a visit to her school, too. He'd always been a wonderful older brother. The fact Peter had actually come in person was extraordinary, and Lucy appreciated the extra attention. All the family had written to congratulate her on being chosen to move forward in the national writing contest, of course, but she hadn't expected a visit.
Her parents had been pleased, and in his letter, Edmund had teased her about not forgetting them all when she was a famous writer.
Susan's letter had been rather a backhanded plaudit: she'd written to warn Lucy about how vicious jealous schoolgirls could be in packs when someone did something unexpectedly well. (Lucy rolled her eyes at this. Just because she wasn't popular like Susan had been, didn't mean she was oblivious to school politics.)
Peter's note declared not only his lack of surprise at her success, but also his intention of stopping by to personally tender his approbation.
The announcement of her story being chosen to advance had been made two weeks ago, and Lucy had to admit, it had felt nice to be brought up in front of the school assembly and made much of. Usually it was one of the older, prettier girls who stood in front of the school, smirking and preening and lording it over the rest of them.
While she was standing in front, listening to the Headmistress tell the other students of her achievement, Lucy couldn't help noticing the unmistakable looks of outrage and jealousy that had crossed over some particular faces. She noticed their expressions, and she tried not to feel smug, but she feared she was only somewhat successful at hiding her feelings of triumph.
But what did it matter if the others were jealous? Her friends were happy for her, and Anne and the rest of the girls couldn't do anything about Lucy's winning, after all. If they chose to be unhappy about it, that was their decision.
And she certainly wasn't going to feel bad simply because she had won (well, advanced in the national contest) and others had not! They'd all done their best, and it just so happened that Lucy's effort was, perhaps, a bit more appealing than the others'.
Anyhow, Peter was going to be here today—out of all expectation; she'd thought he was studying—so how could Lucy entertain any unhappy thoughts with that prospect? Not even the angry-eyed girls circling around and muttering to one another could dim her spirits.
Peter arrived as promised, right on time. She could tell he was crossing the grounds by the way the other girls (some several years older than herself) reacted.
Female heads turned at the crunching sound of his steps on the gravel paths. The girls from the two uppermost forms were scattered in clumps, enjoying the crisp fall day, and they all noticed the unusual sound of a man's step on the gravel paths. (The only men working at the school were the head gardener and his helpers, plus several teachers, but they were all much older than Peter. As far as the schoolgirls were concerned, those men may as well be their grandfathers.)
Lucy had rather forgotten about the effect Peter's golden hair, broad shoulders, military-straight posture, and bright eyes had on the female half of the population. She was reminded now, as he turned the corner of a building and came out into the quad. It had been true back when they'd all been at the Cair, and it proved true now at her boarding school. Girls just fawned over Peter Pevensie.
The ripple of widened eyes on her schoolmates' faces and the rise of whispered conversations that had followed in his wake had nearly made her laugh aloud; the only faces that didn't look entirely perplexed, stunned, or jealous were the faces of her closest friends, who of course had met Peter before and were thus mostly immune to his appeal.
She very nearly had laughed aloud when Missy–two years ahead of Lucy and old enough to know how to better behave–had stepped right in Peter's path. She'd stepped right in front of Lucy, in fact, to toss her trademark red hair flirtatiously. Missy allowed the russet waves to rest becomingly against her shoulder, and looked up at Peter from under long lashes, her head at a practiced angle.
Instead of stopping to talk, Peter blinked, nodded vaguely at her and strode straight past her to greet Lucy. The other girl had gone scarlet with embarrassment. Lucy accidentally caught her eye, and struggled not to obviously laugh. Missy wouldn't see the joke.
The entire school had seen Peter ignore Missy, and the look she sent Lucy promised severe repercussions. She wasn't used to being ignored, particularly not by handsome young men.
The jealousy made Lucy roll her eyes. They all knew she had older brothers. How difficult was it to put two and two together? Did they really think she, a just-going-on-fifteen year old, had a college beau? Especially one so charismatic as Peter?
Peter wasn't completely oblivious; still ignoring all the other girls in the room, he winked conspiratorially at the other girls at Lucy's table, who giggled. "Hullo, Marjorie," he said to one girl. "Have any messages to pass along to Jack?" The bashful girl shook her head. "Well then," Peter said to Lucy, "Shall we go?"
She laughed and stood. "We'll finish talking later, Marjorie!"
Eye-rolling aside, it was Peter's undeniable charisma which had persuaded the Headmistress into allowing Peter to take the school's current favorite out for an ice-cream, provided she were returned to the haven of the boarding school before dark. Grinning, Peter whisked Lucy out of the grounds before the Headmistress could change her mind.
A short while later, Peter and Lucy were in seats at a local place that not only served ice cream, but substantial sandwiches as well.
Lucy sneaked a bite of her ice cream and looked at Peter. "What are you doing here today? I thought you had an exam!"
"Took it early, and came down to spend the weekend with Jack," he answered. "I wanted to get down here and congratulate you. Winning the school writing competition is a great enough accomplishment, but to then get into the national contest—whew!"
She blushed slightly, but looked pleased. "I really never thought it would do so well, honestly."
"I'm not surprised," Peter declared. "You always were a champion story teller." His voice had that particular ring that meant he was speaking of Narnia.
"Yes, but that was, well, there." Lucy said. "I've never been much of anything here, you know."
"Bosh," Peter said. "You've been a lot of things here, and well you know it."
"All right," Lucy acknowledged. "Let's say, then, I've never been much at school."
"You haven't done poorly," Peter said. "That's different to simply not being top of your class. Anyhow, celebrating your sterling qualities aside, I've got a present for you." He handed her a flattish packet, hastily wrapped in last week's newspaper.
"What?" Lucy said, surprised, as she took the packet. "I thought the ice cream outing was a present!"
"It is. This is just the other part." Peter said, and sat back in his chair, looking satisfied as she tore the paper apart.
"Oh, Peter," she said, and smiled brightly at him.
The packet had a couple of lovely notebooks, their covers just limp enough to go into a school bag easily, but just sturdy enough they wouldn't be falling apart after a week's use. She ran her fingers along the beautifully smooth paper, and her nose crinkled in sheer delight. "Oh, Peter, this is—wonderful!"
"Now, I expect you to write your next award-winning piece in at least one of these, Miss Pevensie," he said, lowering his voice in mock sternness, and she laughed.
"So I may use the other one for silliness, then?" she said, and he chuckled.
"Whatever you like. But really, whatever you do or don't do, we're all so proud, Lu. Even Susan mentioned how remarkable it was that a girl not in her final year should win the school prize. Apparently there haven't been many younger winners."
"Oh, I suppose that's true," Lucy said thoughtfully. "I hadn't even thought about that."
"Is that why that busybody of a girl—the one with the orange hair—was so set against my taking you out?" he asked curiously.
"Who? Oh, you must mean Missy. No, she's just a worse flirt than Susan ever was. She saw a college boy she hadn't met yet, and acted like she always does." Lucy rolled her eyes. "We've never particularly liked one another."
"Hm. Well, I'm afraid she likes you even less today and that's my fault," Peter said apologetically, but Lucy waved this off.
"She's never had the guts to do anything more than say nasty things about girls behind their backs. The only friends she has are girls too scared of her to stand up to her. Which is why we're not friends."
Peter regarded her for a moment. "You know, I think I prefer the boys' school way of dealing with these things."
"What's that?" Lucy asked, digging into her ice cream.
"A quick fistfight, a couple of black eyes or maybe broken hands, and all is forgotten. You women do trench warfare!"
Lucy laughed, then sighed. "If Missy would just concentrate on her own self instead of everyone else, she'd probably be a lot happier. But then, I'd be bored more often." she added mischievously.
Peter laughed at this, and started eating his own ice cream. "I suppose you would. And then what would you have to write about?"
"What, indeed!"
They'd had a wonderful visit, though toward the end the sky had started to fill with grey clouds. Dutifully, Peter had deposited her safely at the dormitory well in advance of evening. To get there, they'd had to pass around a weird copse of trees that jutted into the school's grounds. Peter had gazed at it searchingly as they passed, a slight frown on his face.
"That place is uncanny," he remarked. "Why on earth hasn't it been mowed flat?"
"I don't know," Lucy shivered. "I've never much cared for that place. The older girls tell all the first-years that it's haunted. Maybe it is; I know the gardeners don't do anything but trim back overgrowth at the edges. I never go in there. I don't like the way it feels, somehow."
"That… seems like a sensible idea," Peter said slowly. "It seems—darker than it ought to be, or something."
Lucy turned to him in surprise. "Do you think so? I've said so often, but no one else seems to see it."
"Well, I do." Peter shook off the strange mood. "Anyway. Let us know what happens with the national contest, will you? Perhaps next time, I'll take you for an ice cream in London!"
At that Lucy laughed. "No, I'll stay content with my county-wide win, and not get my hopes up. Though it does put me in mind of another story…"
"Glad to hear it!" Peter said, and then they were at her dormitory and shaking good-bye.
She watched Peter go until he was out of sight, and then looked down at the fresh notebooks in her hands.
And she smiled.
Peter was still smiling as the door to the flat opened. "Pete! Glad you made it." Jack Preston welcomed him. He ran one of his father's general stores in the village, and looked after his sister, a classmate of Lucy's. "Here, put your bag down, have a seat. How is our prodigy Lucy?"
"Lucy is Lucy," Peter replied. "Excited to have won; utterly not expecting to do anything more. But I can tell it would please her if she did."
"I hope she does win," Jack said. "Marjie says Lucy puts up with all sorts of nonsense from the older girls, and some of them are really put out by one of the 'children' winning over them."
"Marjorie is biased toward Lucy," Peter pointed out.
"Your sister has been a godsend to mine. Marjorie actually has something resembling a spine, now, thanks to Lucy's influence. Not much of one, but something."
"Marjorie is just very shy." Peter defended his sister's friend. "Not everyone is outgoing."
"I suppose not. And it can't be easy for Marjie with this current crop of top-formers in the school. I can't wait until they all finish school and leave the younger ones alone," Jack sighed. "The eldest girls are allowed time out in the village on Friday and Saturdays, and you watch, if we run into any of them—they're a vicious little bunch of girls."
"Vicious!" Peter laughed outright. "How 'vicious' can a bunch of 16 and 17 year olds be?"
Jack snorted. "From what Marjie says, very. For my part, I know I have to keep a sharp eye on them in the shop or I'll find myself missing stock after they leave. They think it's a grand lark."
"Theft? Really?"
"Really. I haven't been able to catch them at it, and it's all small things, but it does add up." Jack shook his head, and stood. "Enough about those brats! Let's get you settled in for the weekend."
Now, Lucy was sitting in the ground-floor common room of her dormitory, tucked away in her usual corner. She was concentrating hard and trying to capture the right words to tell a story about one of the (many) times Prince Corin had got into trouble. Something Peter had said had struck her memory, and she wanted to get it on paper before it slipped away. At times Narnia felt like a very real dream, but other times it seemed very close, and she wanted to capture it while she could.
Lucy was so engrossed in her work, she didn't notice when the teacher supervising the room was called away, and failed to get anyone to replace her. She didn't even notice the late fall day outside turn colder and darker.
She did notice when a shadow cut through her light, though. She was seated in a little corner out of the trafficked areas, and usually no one bothered her here. Usually, no one found her here.
So she was surprised to look up to see that a small crowd of girls were gathered around. Nearly everyone she could see, except Anne Featherstone (a rather nasty girl two forms up) and Missy, looked nervous. None of the girls around were her friends. In fact, one or two could be considered something akin to enemies. Uneasily, her mind flashed back to Susan's warning. She felt a stir of unease at the sheer number of girls in the group, but shoved the sensation down.
This was going to spoil her nice day, she knew it. She'd managed to avoid Anne for two weeks, now, and had hoped the time would have cooled Anne's explosive temper. Judging from the older girl's expression, this did not seem to be the case. And now Missy, who'd embarrassed herself in front of half the school only hours before, had joined up with her.
"What do you all need?" she asked as pleasantly as she could, straightening from her work.
"We need the truth!" someone said. "There's no way you won that contest fairly."
Lucy's pen dropped at the unfairness of the accusation, not to mention the suddenness of it. "What? But I—"
"Just admit it, Miss Pevensie," Anne said mockingly, folding her arms across her ample chest and glaring down mockingly at Lucy as she ticked off points. "You're only in the fourth form. You haven't even had the upper level Composition classes yet. You've never been known to be especially brilliant. So you must have stolen that story from someone. There's no other way you won that contest."
"I will admit no such thing." Lucy denied instantly, and drew herself up. "It is my story. I am sorry yours was not selected for an award," she added, and meant it. After all, if Anne's story had been chosen, likely as not this conversation wouldn't be happening just now.
"I don't believe it." Anne's hand crashed down on the desktop, making Lucy's pen skip on its surface. "It had Miss Chrisobel nearly in tears. The Headmistress sent it to the Superintendent. They ignored the fact you're too young—"
"There are no rules about age!" Lucy interjected hotly. (There weren't; she'd checked.)
Anne rolled her eyes. "It's just something that is understood." She sneered, and Lucy noticed several of the other girls stopped looking so cowed, and nodded in outraged agreement. Ah. So they were all miffed she'd beaten them, which explained the little crowd. The expressions turned uglier as Anne continued. "—and now you're going to be in the national contest. It should have been me!" At this last, several of the girls shot Anne looks that said, No, you mean it should have been I who won, but none of them spoke up.
Lucy felt her temper rise at the sheer unfairness of all this, but tamped it down. "Anne, I've been telling stories and writing them for years. I mayn't have had the formal classes here, but I have had practice."
Years and years of storytelling and writing in Narnia, of course, but she couldn't tell them that.
"No, really," another girl pushed her way to stand beside Anne. "Was it Susan's story?"
"No," someone in the group answered dismissively, before Lucy could. "Susan was never that creative."
Lucy frowned but couldn't see who had spoken. Her attention was drawn by Sonia Butterfield, who crossed her arms. "I bet it was one of her brothers."
"No, her father, he's a university professor, isn't he?" Someone else suggested.
"Stop!" Lucy said, and shoved herself to her feet. Her temper was starting to slip. "Why is it so hard for you to believe I won the contest fairly, and just accept that I did a little better than you? There will be other contests!" she said, exasperated.
"Why? Why?" Anne's eyes bulged with the force of her anger. "The Headmistress compared you to Christina Rossetti and Edmund Spenser. Miss Chrisobel said it reminded her of a great heroic tale, like something out of Malory, a 'tale of timeless courage standing alone among enemies.'" Anne sneered. "Mr Piper said reading it aloud was like being transported to someone else's mind. And I had to listen to them heap praise on you when I only wanted to know why a scrawny little fourth-former was allowed to enter in the first place! They didn't even mention my story, and I've been working on it for a year!"
Oh. Lucy felt a little badly for Anne, then. It must have been humiliating to stand there and hear admiration being lavished on another's work while one's own was simply… ignored. As though it were insignificant. "I didn't know there was an 'understood' rule about age," she said instead, hoping to defuse the situation. "I might not have entered if I'd known." That last was close to a lie, but hopefully it would cool the heated tempers.
"You shouldn't have presumed to enter at all," Sonia said huffily, pushing forward. Before Lucy's unexpected win, she had been one of the darlings of the literature classes. "And I don't believe you wrote it. Maybe it was your boyfriend who did!" There was an unmistakably jealous hiss of agreement from the other girls.
Missy stepped forward. "I saw him today. He's old enough to have even had university classes on writing. He gave you this book, didn't he? Has he written things in it already for you to copy? Here, let's see—" and she darted forward and grabbed Lucy's notebook.
Even Anne looked surprised at this; then there was a collective gasp and squeals from the other girls as they quickly converged on Missy, who flipped through the book, and seemed enraged all the handwriting in the book so far was Lucy's. Then she flipped through the pages roughly until she found a passage. "The young prince dangled from his father's royal hand, unheeding or uncaring that his feet no longer trod the earth. He swung his fists agitatedly, crying out, 'Poltroon! Coward! Fie on thee—' "
She stopped, realizing that the passage, unique and unusual as its style was, was not really proving the accusation of plagiarism. "'Poltroon'? Where did you even find that word?" was all the barb she could manage.
"It is very like the writing in the story that won," came one reluctant voice from the crowd, but Lucy didn't hear this mild defense of her work.
When Missy had grabbed her book, at first Lucy had been too surprised to react. That had cost her a second or two. Then she'd had to make her way around the table, which took a few more seconds. Trying to push through the knot of girls to retrieve her book took yet more time.
But by the time the one lone voice was saying 'story,' she'd made it to Missy, and had snatched her book back. She drew her chin up, disregarding that most these girls were older and taller, and said, "You shall leave my property alone from now on. Is that clear?"
Trying to give these girls commands was entirely the wrong move.
"Oh, listen to the girl giving us orders! Wins one contest, and thinks she's better than us!" Jeered another girl, and this seemed to tip the whole group over whatever edge they'd been balancing on.
Lucy realized she'd placed herself squarely in the middle of a group of, well, enemies, and mentally kicked herself. Orieus would scold her for her impulsive move if he were here, and she'd deserve it.
She took a quick glance around; no teachers in sight, of course. Chagrin settled in.
Then the crowd of girls was closing on her. Ten-to-one odds were a bit steep to overcome, especially as Lucy really didn't want to harm any of them.
Unfortunately, the grabbing hands, swift kicks, sharp slaps, and jerks on her hair proved that most of the girls did not care, in their frenzy, if Lucy were harmed at all. Later they might regret their actions, but just now they were letting their perceived humiliation and anger direct them. They gave Lucy no chance for escape.
Chagrin changed to alarm as she began to realize they really might not let her go. She'd been expecting a slap or two the second she realized she'd stepped into the middle of them.
But this felt uneasily like it was shaping up to be more.
"Look, girls," she began.
"What should we do with her?"
"Teach her a lesson!"
"—you don't really want—Ow!" A jerk at her hair brought tears of pain to her eyes, and she broke off, her notebook tumbling to the ground.
"Show her she should be humble and grateful to be here—"
"—Yes!" another agreed. "Let her know what happens to show-offs!"
They herded her outside, keeping her stumbling between them. She tried to escape, and if it had only been one or two other girls, Lucy would have been gone in an instant. But there were ten of them, plenty enough to restrain her and keep her moving where they wanted her to go.
Outside, the wind had picked up. A thin line of red bled through the grey clouds massed in the sky, the only indication that it was actually near sunset, and not full night.
There was a moment's pause as the group seemed to realize they had no especial place to go. For a moment, Lucy hoped they'd just let her go, scared but unhurt.
Then someone pointed at the dark copse of wooded ground, the same patch that had made Peter uneasy. They moved toward it en masse.
Rain spat down sporadically as the girls kept shoving Lucy among them, smacking and slapping her to keep her off-kilter. When she tried to break through, the slaps fell more heavily, and one or two fists were employed. She didn't escape.
When they reached the wooded patch, it was brambly and choked with sharp-leaved weeds. The fall-stripped branches scratched jaggedly at the dark sky overhead. Lucy's alarm gave way to dread at the sight of those deadened trees, and she made another dodge to try to get away, but found herself shoved to the ground by one girl, then stomped on by Anne.
Oh, that hurt—it pushed the air right out of Lucy's lungs, and there was a dreadful moment when she couldn't draw breath. Her vision greyed out and there was a rushing sound in her ears. For a moment, it drowned out the jeers of the girls.
Or perhaps that was the thunder, more insistent now, accompanied by more frequent raindrops.
Oh, Lord—they really weren't going to let her go, were they? If she'd realized that sooner, she'd have lashed out, and damn the consequences.
And then—just when she was lining up a kick at one girl's knee—then she was being picked up! She was being helped to her feet—her arms were held—somehow they'd realized how mad a thing they were doing, they'd dropped out of that frenzy—
She blinked the pain-greyness out of her eyes, only to see Sonia's handkerchief, twisted tightly into a knot, coming toward her mouth. The acrid taste of Sonia's perfume dried out her tongue instantly.
At the same time, the arms that were holding her up wrenched hers back suddenly, making her cry out against the gag. She tried to run, but six sets of hands grabbed onto her and didn't let go. She felt a rope of some sort—shoelaces, perhaps—twist around her hands and knot sturdily, tying her hands together around a thick branch of one of the enormous twisted rosebushes that lurked under the broken trees.
She worked her jaw, but couldn't budge the makeshift gag. She tried to talk anyway, making insistent sounds in her throat.
Two of the girls, hanging back and looking uncertain now, looked away from her at her distress, but didn't move to help her either.
Missy made her way to the front of the pack and considered Lucy. "Anne," she said, "what was the phrase from Pevensie's story that you said Miss Chrisobel kept repeating? 'Courage standing alone?' "
Anne looked a little uneasy at the look on Missy's face. "Yes…"
"I think Pevensie should get the chance to experience it firsthand, don't you? Perhaps then she'll admit she doesn't know what she's talking about, and admit she stole that story from someone." On the word 'stole,' Missy stepped forward and shoved Lucy sharply, sending her careening painfully into the rosebush's embrace. It was old, and the thorns were horribly long. They went through Lucy's clothing like knife points and drove into her skin.
Lucy willed herself not to cry out, refusing to give Missy the satisfaction.
Anne, standing by, seemed to harden at her lack of reaction. "I agree." She sniffed, and tilted her head. "How long a lesson do you think she needs? An hour? Two?"
Lucy eyed her in alarm. It was getting colder still, and the rain was starting to really fall. She'd get ill if she were trapped out here for two hours!
But even Anne's expression changed to a little bit of shock as Missy gave her answer. "All night." She leaned in and whispered so only Lucy could hear. "That's what you get for publicly humiliating me, Pevensie."
She shoved Lucy again, then turned away and started back to the school, the other girls trailing uncertainly behind her. One or two looked back, but no one returned to help her. The rain came faster, and they hurried their steps back to the dormitory.
When the other girls were gone, Lucy didn't waste time crying or feeling sorry for herself, though she wished she could afford herself the luxury. Instead, she twisted her hands in their bonds, straining to catch a loop or end or something.
Nothing. The rain was pounding down now, running in icy rivulets down her face, plastering her hair to her cheeks and neck. Lightning made the gnarly branches around her seem to twist and writhe, as though the thorny bushes were eager to rip into her skin again. She could feel the myriad scratches and holes that had been torn in her when Missy shoved her back against the thorns. They hurt.
She glanced down at the dirt at her feet but it was too dark and rainy and windy to see if she was actually bleeding, or if it was just the sheer number of scratches that set her back on fire. It was a strange contrast to the iciness of the rest of her body.
More time ticked by as she struggled to free herself. The cold rain was bordering on sleet, now, hard, stinging drops pelting down against her head, blinding her. Her hands were already numb. She couldn't feel the laces under her fingers anymore, and in any case a soaking wouldn't have loosened the knots any.
She tried catching the rope around her wrists against one of the giant protruding thorns, but they snapped off in mere seconds.
If she could just get loose from the bush, she could make her way to the dorms, the library, anywhere there were people—anywhere those spiteful girls weren't. Even if her hands were still tied, she'd be able to run.
But the old rosebush—really, a tree—was solid as an oak door. The branches she had been tied to barely moved when she jerked desperately at her bound wrists. A faint burning sensation in her wrists told her that she'd likely done more harm to herself than the tree, and she realized that if she didn't calm down, she'd never get loose.
Deliberately she stood still, ignoring her hurts, breathing as best she could with her mouth gagged and her nose half stopped up, half running. She succeeded in drawing one or two rain-tinged breaths, and thought a moment—then gritted her teeth and deliberately backed closer to the bush's thorny embrace. Lightning flashed and thunder roared as the storm intensified.
The thorns stabbed her all over again, but she ignored it. She needed information. She wedged herself closer and closer until she could close her mostly-numb hands around the branch she was tied to.
Hmm. She couldn't close one hand around the branch: it was very old, and very thick. Therefore it was unlikely that pulling at it would do anything more than break her wrists.
All right. She'd eliminated one possible solution; breaking the branch was out. What next?
She felt the telltale quiver of incipient sobs in her chest, and tried to will herself to calm.
She nearly choked breathing in. Get rid of the gag, was next, then. Again, she stood still, trying to quiet her mind to concentrate on shoving the handkerchief out of her mouth so she could breathe. And then scream like a banshee for help. Though with the near-constant thunder, she didn't know who could possibly hear her—who would even be out in this weather?
Her mouth was bone dry, and the handkerchief stuck to the inside of her cheeks. Nonetheless she pressed at the fabric with her tongue, pushing it forward as best she could, bit by bit. The hardest part was getting the bulk of it past her teeth.
For a while she wondered if it was possible to dislocate one's own jaw. A very long while later, she finally spat the last bit of perfume-doused fabric out, and drew her first real breath for what felt like hours.
Despite its freezing nature, she was suddenly grateful for the rain as it soothed her parched mouth. She knew it would only make her colder, but the temptation to slake her thirst was too great, and for several moments she alternated gasping full breaths in with catching rivulets of the bitter-tasting rain as it cascaded off the dark leaves around her.
She shuddered in the cold and the wet, trying to think how to get out of this fix. In other times, in other circumstances, there were other people who were looking out for her—her brothers, her parents, her friends.
But right now she only had herself, and it felt very lonely as she tried to peer through the driving rain to see anything that she might be able to use to get herself free.
She shouted, as loudly as she could, as she looked about, trying to divine an answer.
No one answered her call, and nothing met her frantic gaze as it darted about during the frequent lightning flashes. Thunder rolled, and the wind scraped along the trees and bushes, sending debris swirling upward. Her tired sight followed the swirling, sodden leaves as they leapt over head, shaking the thin ends of the trees madly—
And Lucy realized she could feel the faintest of tremors in the great thick branch she was tied to.
Could she possibly inch her bound hands over the end of the branch? How tall was it?
She realized that it didn't matter; she had to try. It was her only option.
So she backed close in to the thorny branches again, and hitched her hands up as far as they would go. She closed her hands around the branch, and gripped hard, trying to avoid the thorns. She hooked her left ankle back behind her and around the rosebush, tensed, and pushed herself up as far as she could with her right foot, trying to get her left foot to catch around the rosebush in a sort of reverse rope climb.
It worked—for a second, and then she started to slide back down.
No! Near-panic fueled her strength. She gripped hard with her hands, and kicked behind her with her feet, trying to gain purchase on the slick rosebush. Her feet caught for just a second—enough to shove up and grab hard again, kick the feet, catch, shove up—
Inch by inch she started to move up the branch, frantically, heedless of how far she had to go (she couldn't see anyway). She only knew if she stopped she'd fall back down, and if she did that, she didn't know if she could begin again. She couldn't shout now, needing all her breath to maintain the backward hitch—grab—kick—
She had a few moments of desperate twisting as her feet slipped and she dangled by her burning arms. She swung backward, hooked the branch—kept going on—
When her cheek hit the earth, it was a genuine shock and she froze for a second. Was she free?
No—she'd just moved enough of her weight up this branch that it had slowly pressed her down to the ground.
Moving now was almost harder—she still had to maintain the awkward behind-her-back movements of her arms, but she was also shoving herself along the ground, now. The thick branch was flexed like a bow against her back, pulling her arms back and up.
She closed her eyes against the mud and let out a sob. How much longer could she go on?
She gave in to a second of despair, then.
And she imagined what Aslan would say to her just now. Courage.
How much longer could she go on?
As long as I need to, she thought grimly, and got back to work.
Next part coming *very very soon*. It's nearly done. Nearly!
