Chapter 11

Now even Peter began to see the change in himself. He no longer wanted to sit still and gaze out the window, and he very nearly had to force himself to stay sedentary long enough to write letters to Lucy. Love her though he did, he hated the feeling of inactivity.

More often than not he was out riding the palomino. So far he was the only rider the horse would take, and Peter could guess why. "You only want to be recognized for what you are," he smiled as they took to a path in the woods at a walk. "And you are a noble charger, not a cart-horse."

The horse tossed his head at this as if nodding, and Peter laughed. If anyone, particularly his brother and sister, had been around to hear it, they would know from the clear sound of his laughter that he was no longer plagued with a troubled mind. Lucy's voice was bright and gay as a bell, but Peter's laugh had always been clear and true as a trumpet, a sound merry and majestic all at once.

"I shall call you Bree," he decided, "After a horse the Prince Cor once introduced me to."

This time he heard the words he said, and he remembered the old allies of Narnia in Archenland. He sighed, and there was an echo of petulance to it. Though Peter was recovering, it was as one recovers from a fever. No one gets better all at once, and if he doesn't take care, he can easily have a relapse. Peter might have been on the edge of one, but he saw up ahead the sun shining straight through the trees, powerful and golden. He urged the newly baptized Bree forward, thinking how he would like to feel that rich light on his shoulders.

The horse stopped right in a pool of sunlight, and Peter just sat in the glow, soaking it up into his very joints for a moment. This was real and rich and warm, true gold finer than the crown he had borne on his head and softer than the silk of his Narnian clothes. He stretched, and he patted Bree's neck and murmured, "Once a king in Narnia, always a king in Narnia.

All at once he remembered that the Professor had said once a king, always a king, but he was not the first person Peter heard it from. Aslan had said it at his own coronation, and He had added the commandment "Bear it well, sons of Adam."

Was he bearing it well? He had in Narnia…or he had done his best, at any rate. He was doing far from that here. And yet Edmund had reminded him that once he said he could bear it, a life in England without hope of returning to Narnia. Peter had been mooning about how, but now he realized it was like fighting a battle: he just had to do it. He had to bear with this England, and once he got started he knew it would be easier than it seemed. After all, Lucy and Edmund were rather successful.

Moreover, here was this fine sunlight and these green woods. When he returned, he could talk with the brothers, or help their fair sister bring in the milk. At night there would be company and good cheer. He and Polly and the Professor would sit and reminisce, but it would be nice to talk of that place, not sad. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a letter of strength and good cheer from Edmund and a package from Lucy. She hinted that his blanket was nearly done and he was eager to have the Narnian souvenir woven by his sister's hand. Certainly there were beautiful things in this life. Perhaps no one addressed him as High King, but that didn't mean he couldn't be one anyway.

He thought vaguely that he ought not be idle but make some plans. He wished Edmund was there; his brother was very good with that sort of thing. When Peter lacked an idea or a part of the plan, or too many ideas swam at him at once, Edmund had always been good at sorting things out or adding the missing piece, be it logistical details or plain common sense.

In thinking of Edmund, Peter's half-formed notions of plans for his own future were overtaken by a very strong desire to see his brother and sister again. He would have liked to see both sisters, but he doubted Susan would come, though one day they would perhaps make up. There was at least reason to hope from the way they said goodbye. His head was quite suddenly so full of things he would like to do with Lucy and Edmund that he turned Bree around and cantered all the way back to the Professor's, for he was resolved that they should come too, for a little while at least.

He strode into the house prepared to make a speech, but not a word of it made it to his mouth. Polly and the Professor were sitting by the fire, which was not unusual in itself. What Peter found odd was the fact that their afternoon tea was untouched and they wore serious expressions as they leaned close to each other in deep conversation. He was unsure whether he should go or stay, but they heard his footstep and looked up.

"Ah, Peter. Good," the Professor said. "I must ask you to run to the telegraph office in town—we need to gather everyone. I feel—though I can't say how—that something is amiss in Narnia."

Peter felt himself go pale. "What do you mean, sir?" he asked.

The Professor chuckled at his expression, but it was somewhat of a false chuckle. "There's no need to look so alarmed. It's just a feeling I have in my bones. Only I think it's best that we call the others. Don't you?"

"Oh. Yes, sir." Peter drew himself up. "I'll send a wire to Lucy and Edmund." He turned to leave, but Polly called after him.

"And Jill and Eustace. Don't forget them," she reminded. "And Peter—"

"Yes?"

"Try not to look so worried. "You've saved Narnia before, haven't you?"