VII

The Death of Clocks

Silence settled over the room, stifling. Peter felt as though he could not breathe. Only the Professor seemed normal; on his face, a mild disturbance but calm eyes. Edmund was stiff beside his brother. Caspian had his arms crossed over his chest. Peter shook his head as if to clear it, and the movement caused Edmund to jump. Lucy sat frozen, and it was to her that the Pevensie brothers looked. The Professor looked pointedly away, to the neutrality of a large glass window. The sunroom grew unbearably warm as the sun beat in.

Tumnus was silent. How could he have known, when he went after the Stag? He couldn't; that was all. He tried to stop thinking about it. Perhaps that explained why he was having such a hard time adapting. He felt so groggy, even after waking only an hour or so before. His head reeled. Lucy.

His brain was numb. This was impossible. Why would Aslan have sent him the stag, if he had known it would be the death of Tumnus? It did not make sense. He must have looked as confused as he felt, for the Pevensie boys looked upon him in pity. It was Caspian who was bold enough (or selfish enough) to break the silence.

"Well, certainly, we must get back to Narnia as soon as we might," Caspian said in a self-important tone. "I have too much to do; I cannot die in some shack in a place no one's heard of." Peter nearly sprang from his chair, ready to snap Caspian's neck for him. Edmund grabbed Peter's sleeve and pulled him back down. He heard the squeak of wicker as Lucy shifted her weight uneasily. Edmund's eyes fell on his sister. Peter finally struggled past the bedroom scene of that morning, and watched the two across from him.

Peter felt only pity. He could not hate Tumnus (or Lucy, for that), no matter what happened; they had grown too close in these past few days. And, really—this was highly unlike Aslan. He did not place rewards before someone only to revoke them.

"Although," Peter murmured under his breath, "isn't that what he did to us, only Narnia is what we lost?"

"Sorry?" Edmund looked sideways at his older brother.

"Nothing," Peter said quickly. "I was only saying how it's not fair at all."

"No, it's strange," Edmund nodded. "There is no justice in it."

"Perhaps," the Professor said kindly, "Aslan did not realize the profundity of the feelings these two young people share."

"No," Peter said firmly. "Aslan knows all. There must be a reason, but I can't think of it!" He looked with compassion at his sister and the young man at her side. They were almost there! he thought passionately. Why would it be snatched from them again? Peter felt rage boiling up in him. No one could treat his sister this way, nor the man she chose. Lucy rose up from her seat, swaying as though dizzy.

"Are you well?" Tumnus asked in worry. He was beginning to be very uncomfortable, with everyone talking about Lucy and him as though they were not in the room.

Lucy whimpered faintly and exited. Tumnus looked up fully at Peter and Edmund then, and now I'm afraid I must interject.

There is nothing so good as the love that bind people together. All cultures have their tales. In China, the story goes that lovers are inseparably connected by a red thread. The wedding circle represents (in Western culture) the cyclical nature of love, it's everlasting power. But there are some things cultures do not need to represent with symbols or stories, because (although we are very different from people in other parts of the world), we share universal knowledge that good is good and wrong is wrong. Love is good: love between brothers, love between partners, and most importantly perhaps of all: love between friends. The forces that tie us are more than magic and time, as are so many things. Perhaps you have realized now what Narnia truly is. It took the Pevensies a little longer, but I'm certain when I say that the Professor knew all along. Aslan, of course, knew—perhaps even dear Mr. Tumnus knew. But all would soon discover it, once and for all.

There was no shortage of love in that room (perhaps only towards Caspian, but even so, the love for Narnia included him). And so, as Peter looked fully at Tumnus, a true mark of love came to pass.

Here is how it happened: In that moment, when Tumnus locked eyes with Lucy's eldest brother, he spoke without words—soul to soul, love to love. Your sister is the dearest to me, Tumnus said to Peter, without any words. Peter understood, suddenly, that letting his sister go would happen sooner or later. Letting go of everyone and everything familiar—comfortable—would come; and no matter how long he prepared, it would always be too sudden and always too painful to bear. He was only so fortunate to know a good man—Faun?—would catch Lucy when Peter took his arms away. Lucy, at least, he could be sure of. And certainty is a very valuable thing. And so it was that Peter Pevensie hiked up his nerve and decided to trust the very thing he feared the most: abandonment. For he felt very much like he was giving Lucy away. But what choice did he have? Peter felt Edmund's eyes on his cheek.

And suddenly, Peter recalled what Edmund had said last night. We'll always have Narnia. You'll always have Lucy and Susan and I. I'm here for you. Peter realized, unexpectedly, that arms were waiting for Peter himself to stumble. Someone would always be there to catch him, should he need it. Without knowing it, Peter smiled. A small weight lifted from his shoulders, and he looked squarely at Tumnus and said, Yes. The two men blinked and the connection was broken, and another thread linked the Pevensies to the Faun—to Narnia. Narnia touched them so, even still: all of them. And perhaps it's wrong to say there's no magic in love—for after all, there is magic in every worthy thing. It is a remarkable thing, magic. Very rarely does no good come of it. Peter was beginning to understand something the Professor always had (something that dear Aslan knew, one day, Peter would know). People make magic every day, with love and acceptance and with faith. But now, you and I, we know as well. And what is more magical than the knowledge of that?

Tumnus left, his eyes grateful, to retrieve Lucy.

Edmund looked at his brother and Peter, seeing his face, put a reassuring arm around his little brother's shoulders.

"Are you sure that was wise?"

"Yes," Peter answered, and he was, absolutely. Edmund sighed and let the trust enter him as well. The Professor and Caspian looked at the boys.

"Surely," Caspian said scornfully, "she could do better than that riff-raff."

"No," Peter said coolly, "I don't believe she could."

"Nor do I," Edmund spoke up. The Professor's eyes twinkled.

"My fine lads," he told the Pevensie brothers, "you are truly men now."

And they were.

Lucy rushed out of the sun room, her long hair floating around her as the crisp wind of late summer blew. The long grass of the yard rippled golden and green about her shins. She saw her brothers with the Prince and the Professor stand. She assumed they must go upstairs, to work on the wardrobe problem. She sat down, the blades tickling her bare legs.

It wasn't fair! Just as she and Tumnus had been reunited, now they would be torn apart once more. Narnia—it was always being pulled from her. Wouldn't she ever be able to hold onto the dearest things? And Tumnus was dying. Because of her.

The corners of her mouth turned sharply downwards. No, she thought to herself, you will not cry—not anymore. No more crying for things impossible. The back door opened, and footsteps fell silently on the grass.

She wanted Susan so badly she ached. Susan had always known how to cheer Lucy up; how to make any situation better. Lucy sniffed, hard. It wasn't the same, just Peter and Edmund and herself (although Lucy dearly loved her brothers, do not misunderstand). Lucy strained to imagine what Susan would tell her, should she be here and should she believe any of the fantastic story.

You must be strong, she could picture Susan's gentle voice, her graceful hands soothing, rubbing Lucy's back. The light swayed and it seemed as though Susan were there, in the pollen from the wildflowers, in the dust in the air, in everything. She could almost see her face. She could certainly feel her hands. Like some strange ghost, Lucy thought wearily, tired. So tired. Or like the spirits of trees, from the Great War.

"I don't think I can be," Lucy told the—ghost? Messenger?

You are just as brave as Peter, she heard Susan say. Maybe even more. You must be strong, my dear one. For it is now that your love—and your brothers—and Narnia needs you most.

"Now I know you are a ghost," Lucy said with a desperate wail. The image flickered and smiled.

Perhaps I am, it conceded. But the precious things, keep in your heart. You must take care of your memories. Keep me as you loved me best: Queen of the radiant Southern sun, gentle, all of that. The ghost smiled, wan and faint, but a smile all the same.

"I loved you best," Lucy said quietly, "just as you are and have been and will be."

My sweet Lucy, said the ghost, nothing lasts forever.

"Some things do," Lucy asserted firmly, almost as though she were trying to convince herself.

You always were special, my valiant little sister. Promise me you will stay Lucy.

"I promise."

Remember we have faith in you! The ghost—Susan—cried. Your brothers and I—we believe you can do anything! You gave Narnia to us. You gave us the world. There's nothing greater than the gifts you give, Lucy. Remember you sister loves you well. The ghost became hazy and Lucy reached for her, but suddenly a cloud of pollen and curled leaves blew through Lucy's hair, and she knew then that Susan of Narnia was truly gone. She was right. Neither Peter, nor Edmund, nor Lucy would ever see their old Susan—their gentle queen—ever again. Yes, once a King or Queen of Narnia, always—but only if you choose it. Susan's choice was clear. Every so often, it caused Lucy pain, and she would sit heavily down. Peter felt it too (Edmund not as strongly). But take comfort—wherever she is, they remember her yet.

Peter leaned on the windowsill of the attic, as Caspian knocked about the back of the wardrobe and the Professor bent, groaning on arthritic knees, to investigate the strange object. Edmund came to join his brother.

"You seem rather distracted," Edmund said casually.

"I'm sorry," Peter started, looking embarrassed. "I just can't seem to resign myself to the fact that Tumnus must die."

"You are still fond of him."

"That's a stupid thing to ask," Peter said roughly, more cruelly then he meant to. "Of course I do. Our little sister loves him. And he showed Narnia to her. To us."

"We are in his debt, I know," Edmund said. He was always uneasy when Peter mentioned the beginning of their experiences in Narnia. But no one held any ill will towards Edmund anymore.

"Ed," Peter said softly, "what if we can't open the wardrobe?"

"I don't know," Edmund replied. "But I fear what will happen if we fail."

"Are you two going to help, or what?" Caspian shouted, irate and sweaty. Edmund patted Peter's shoulder and returned to work, but Peter remained. He watched Lucy sitting in the middle of the large yard, talking (it seemed) to herself. A ripple of—well, of something—flashed before her, but Peter was sure it was just a trick of the light. He watched as Tumnus began to approach her, and then he watched them together. Suddenly the light changed and Peter gripped the windowsill so hard it creaked.

"Edmund," he nearly shouted, "come quickly!"

"Lucy?" a deep, rather distressed voice called. She remained silent.

Tumnus caught the glare of red off her bright hair. He came to her and sat across from her in the grass. He held out his arms.

She threw herself into them. Her face buried in his chest, she wept. He held her gently, murmuring against the crown of her head. "Why do you cry?" he asked her, finally. She looked up, disbelieving.

"You ask me why?" He wiped her face gently, but tears still flowed. "I am losing you!"

"No," he said gently, pushing her hair back from her shoulders. "You are not. I will always be here, Lucy."

"Everyone I know—everyone dear from Narnia—they all go away." He sighed, holding her out to look at her.

"I will stay here," he murmured. "Is that what you want? To stay together?"

"You can't," she said, in horror. "You'll die, Tumnus."

"We will all die someday," he shrugged. "It is the only certain thing. No one can say exactly how grass shall grow, but we all die." She looked miserably up at him. His blue eyes did not falter, but he was terrified as she.

"I fear what will become of us," he said finally, watching her. Lucy's green eyes were clear, bright with crying.

"We haven't got a choice," she told him. "You must go back."

"I would not leave you," he said firmly, "for all the stars."

"Aslan will know how to help," she decided. "We will both return to Narnia and talk to Aslan."

"What if he doesn't, Lucy?" He sat in the warm grass and Lucy nearly cried to see his face. He ran his hands through his hair, standing the curls on end. "He can't think I'm the best for you."

"Aslan looks beyond what's obvious," she said desperately. "You're being silly." Tumnus fell silent.

"Tumnus?" she asked after a long moment

"Yes, my dear," he answered, voice hollow.

Don't you miss being a Faun?"

"A little," he said, after thinking briefly what to say. I must be truthful, he decided, for I love her too much to betray her as I did so long ago. "I miss Narnia. But I missed you more, Lucy Pevensie."

"You will stay this way and die within a year, if you remain here with me."

"Spare Oom isn't so bad," he reassured her, pinching her round cheek. "I guess I'll have to stay this way." He looked down at his pale feet, and wiggled his toes. "But what have I become?" he looked up suddenly.

"A man," she said simply.

"It's not a good feeling, whatever has happened," Tumnus said slowly. "I don't feel like Tumnus the Faun. I don't feel like I should. I feel…tired. The world is pulling me down."

"You're not meant for this world," she said weakly.

"I was made for the world where you are." He plucked a wild daisy and tucked it behind her ear. "I was made to be with you." Lucy looked up sharply and he smiled a little. "Like you've never faked sleep?"

There are, in any number of worlds, pairs of doomed lovers that never get a chance to be certain. The least that Lucy and Tumnus had was the sureness of love. They knew that, at least, this was certain.

But, of course, of all things, love is the worst to fight. And the prospect of losing each other numbed any goodness. It pulled hard on Tumnus' chest.

"I believe," he said softly, "that my heart wants to be next to yours."

"You will have to remember me," she told him, "every moment we are apart."

"For the rest of my life," he promised. "Lucy, I don't have much. I've got a few old books and a little money, but I'd give everything to keep you here with me."

"I remember the day we met," she said suddenly. He wondered back to the creek. It seemed an eternity ago, that snowy day under the lamp-post.

"I could not forget it," he said, hesitatingly. He wasn't sure where she was going with this.

"And when you found me—" but he interrupted her.

"You found me," he told her. "You found me. You helped me become who I am. You—you saved me, Lucy."

"No," she murmured, taking his hand and drawing her index finger along the palm. "That good heart was there all along. You just didn't know it. You never needed saving."

"Lucy," he said slowly. He felt guilty, but he could not stop himself from saying it. "I believe that… if I were to stay here, I would not die."

Sometimes, however, it seems we needn't fight love at all.

"But the Professor said—" she whimpered.

"Some things can't be decided by time," he told her. He touched her cheek gently. He could hardly bear lying to her, but he had to do something—anything—to make her feel happy again. He could not bear such sadness on her face. "This could bring me back to life again."

"What?"

"You could," he was not quite sure what he meant to say. He didn't know how to convince her. Maybe he couldn't, he thought with despair, but he had to try. He wanted to convince himself. "How you feel for me."

"Love?" she laughed. "Oh, Mr. Tumnus, love is not as strong as all that. You mustn't believe every story."

"There's a reason those stories are written," he insisted. "Love is the strongest force, Lucy. It is the deepest magic in all worlds, here or Narnia. There is no use fighting it. Love for children, love for—for Queens," he said sheepishly. "I don't suppose we can control it any more than we can control the color of our eyes. I never meant to fall in love with you."

"I meant to love you," she said. "When I was young, I knew you to be my dearest friend. And when I grew older, I realized everything we could be. I always meant to be with you." Tumnus flushed.

"Surely you can't mean that,"

"I do."

"Will you wait for me?" he asked suddenly, nearly a shout in how frantic it was. "Will you—will you not choose anyone else, here in Spare Oom? Will you wait, until we figure out a way to be together?"

"I promise," she said, "if you do."

"I could not marry anyone else," he told her. "I could never love another than Lucy Pevensie. Only her. Only you," he corrected himself. "There is nothing I would not do for you." He clutched her hands, his eyes earnest.

Suddenly, Lucy turned her head from him, hearing a snort behind her in the woods. Tumnus followed her eyes. A snow-white beast stood dazzling in the late afternoon sun. In the attic, Peter called Edmund to him, frantically.

"The Stag," he whispered. Lucy gripped his hands tightly. The Stag lowered its head, regarding them thoughtfully. "But—how?"

"I don't know," she whispered. The Stag approached them. In the upstairs window, the two brothers watched the scene unfold. They watched as Lucy and Tumnus rose, hands clasped. Part of Susan's spirit may have remained, swirling in the sudden gust of wind. Lucy's long red hair churned. And slowly, the Stag approached them. It reached out its silky white nose to Lucy, and, with slender fingers, she held her hand out.

"What is she doing?" Edmund whispered. Peter did not respond. He couldn't have. He was frozen. His hands were rigid on the windowsill. Below him, in the field, Lucy's hair halted, solid as stone, fanned about her like a copper halo. The Professor's mouth was open in question, but no sound came out. Peter's eyes moved to Edmund's, but Edmund was focused on their sister. Caspian was stiff, his fist outstretched to knock at the wardrobe. The Professor was still bent in examination. Peter's eyes flicked back to the Stag below and then they, too, stuck. Downstairs, the grandfather clock stopped ticking. Silence settled again that day—eerie, unnatural, magical.

Lucy's fingers brushed the Stag's muzzle, unaware that time had frozen. A butterfly was suspended in its ascension from a wildflower. Under her own, Tumnus' hand felt cold.

"Hello, Lucy Pevensie," a low voice said pleasantly. The Stag had gone. In its place, a blinding golden light. Lucy raised her hand to shield her eyes, taking her fingertips from the glow. If Edmund and Peter had been able to gasp, up there in the attic, they would have. Lucy took a step back, eyes wide in wonder.

"Aslan," she whispered.