Chapter Five: Something Worth Saving
I woke that afternoon to the tantalising smell of frying sardines. I heard the spit and crackle of the fire on the other side of the bedroom door and knew that Tumnus was cooking lunch. As I forced my tired eyes open and extracted myself with difficulty from the bedcovers, I tried to gauge how long I had been sleeping for. The sky had been tinged with dawn's pale glow when I had regained consciousness that morning, so I guessed I had been in bed for at least six hours. My ankle throbbed dully as I lowered my feet to the cold floor, and I sat still for a moment, waiting for the pain to subside.
I could hear Tumnus singing softly to himself as I crossed the room to the mirror opposite the bed. Leaning on the dresser, I took the weight off my ankle and inspected my reflection. I looked terrible. My face was drawn, flecked with dirt, and even paler than usual. My dark hair was matted; it hung past my narrow, bony shoulders in sad-looking tendrils. My eyes, normally a striking shade of ebony, seemed to have lost their intensity. They gazed back at me, washed-out and sleepy.
There was a small tin bath in the corner of the room. Next to it was a stone jug and a pile of soft rags. I felt a sudden urge to wash myself—and my clothes—clean. My dresses were stained and my skin was even worse. I picked up the jug and approached the bedroom door. Opening it a fraction and peering into the cave beyond, I saw that Tumnus had gone. I heard him shifting some firewood outside on the grass. Quickly, I slipped in and filled the jug with hot water from the pot over the fire. Resisting the temptation to grab a couple of sardines as I passed the table, I returned to the bedroom, shut the door, poured the steaming water into the bath, and proceeded to scrub myself spotless.
When I had finished, and my white skin was stinging from the vigorous scouring I had given it, I relaxed and let my eyes drift closed. My webbed fingers flexed in the water and I sighed in contentment. It felt wonderful.
Then my thoughts turned to the events of the last two days. I could hardly believe I was back in my cave—no, I corrected myself regrettably, the Faun's cave—after having convinced myself I would have to leave. I was willing to bet Tumnus would insist on me staying until I was fully healed. I was immensely grateful to him, but I could not help wondering what he would say if he knew of my past, and whether he would alert the authorities. And then there was the nagging voice in my head that would not stop reminding me of the Faun's allegiance. His folk had killed Jadis, and I doubted I would ever be able to forgive them.
I was jerked abruptly from my musings by the sound of the door opening. Cursing myself for not thinking to put a chair up against it, I quickly curled into a crouch and hid behind the side of the bath. I peeked over the edge just in time to lock eyes with Tumnus, who had entered carrying a tray of sardines. When he saw me, he jumped and almost dropped the food. I raised my head slightly, so that only my face was visible over the top of the tub.
"So—so sorry," Tumnus was stammering, backing hastily out of the door with cheeks aflame. I squirmed uncomfortably as he disappeared from sight, and instantly felt so guilty that I grabbed the largest of the cloths from the pile, wrapped myself in it, and set about getting dressed. When I had brushed the worst of the dirt from my dress and washed off the rest with a damp rag, I slipped it on and hobbled out into the cave, grasping the furniture for support.
Tumnus was standing at the fire. When he caught sight of me he jumped back as though burned.
"Oh—oh—you didn't have to—" he started to say, backing away from me.
"It's all right," I said. "I was finished anyway."
He blinked, not seeming to know what to say. He hovered near the window, looking very awkward.
"I do apologise," I said unhappily. "It was entirely my fault. I should have—I don't know—warned you, perhaps."
He shook his head. "No, really—"
But I ignored him. "This is not working. I really should leave, shouldn't I?"
Tumnus put out his hands, still shaking his head, and came a little closer to me. "No, not at all. I forbid it. You must stay here until you have recovered."
I stared at him for a moment. I was torn between wanting to remain at the cave—it was, after all, a safe haven—and wanting to escape as soon as possible to avoid discovery.
"Why are you so eager to leave?" Tumnus asked quietly, a slight frown etched onto his face.
I hesitated, then let out a breath and shot him a rare smile. "I am not. You have been so kind to me. I just—I just don't want to be a burden."
He seemed satisfied with this explanation, and returned the smile. "Nothing could be further from the truth," he said, walking over to the fire. "Now, do you want some lunch?"
Trying to calm my nerves, I graciously accepted the offer. We both sat down at the table to eat, and soon Tumnus was telling me all about the previous night's adventure. The brown flash I had seen before I lost consciousness had been an arrow. As it turned out, he had come after me out of sheer curiosity—after all, it wasn't every day you came home and found that someone had been living there in your absence—and had heard the howls. He had rushed back for his bow and quiver and had arrived at the scene just in time to see the three beasts fly at me. He had killed one and the others had fled.
"Well, I must say," I remarked when he had finished, "you were very brave."
He shook his head modestly as he leaned over to pour me another cup of tea. "I am not brave at all. Anybody would have done it."
"Not for me," I said, thinking of the dog-eat-dog life I had lived at the Witch's Castle.
Tumnus paused, his hand halfway to my teacup. He glanced at me, holding my gaze for several seconds. Then he said, "I think you are worth saving, Sylvia."
After that I did not speak of the wolf incident. We finished our drinks in silence, listening to the birds chirping outside in the trees, and afterwards I helped him clean up the crockery. His words circled around and around in my mind for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, but it was not until late that night when I was tucked up in Tumnus' bed—he had insisted on sleeping in the armchair again—that I understood why.
Somebody cared for me.
Nobody had cared for me since my mother's death, and I had only been a young nymph when she passed away. I had cared for my sisters in a sense, of course, but they were not my real sisters (I was an only child; it was merely a name given to us by the Queen, presumably because it made it easier to refer to us as a group). The sort of care we had felt for each other was practical and impersonal. It was useful to have somebody watching your back, so we stayed together. It all came down to personal gain.
The realisation that Tumnus cared for me—the sort of care that is not selfish and has nothing to do with convenience—bathed me in a strange, warm glow, and I soon began to slide into a light slumber.
Perhaps being friends with a Faun was not all that bad, after all.