Chapter Two.
Oxford's campuses were sparsely populated, true, but they weren't totally barren of fresh young minds thirsting for knowledge, or a way to get out of service on the front. Peter didn't make friends easily with these pacifists and rebels against society, who drank in seedy bars and cabarets in the city when they could go and discussed philosophy and free love. But he found a few friends; his dorm mate, Nathan Kincade, and a few other lads who played cricket on the lawn when the air raid sirens weren't going off.
Peter blinked at the shaft of light coming through the heavy blackout curtains right into his eyes. He turned over, looking at the clock, sitting up in shock. 7:50- and his first class at 8! "Why doesn't the alarm work any more?" he asked drowsily, shaking Nate awake and dodging blows from his still very heavily sleeping friend.
"Get off, mate, she's mine…" Nate growled, turning over and hugging his pillow. Peter shook his head- Nate constantly had girls on the brain, and his sleep was no exception. Peter did his best air raid siren impression straight into Nate's ear, which woke him up right off, and then scrambled around, looking for a clean pair of socks and his loafers.
Nate and he pelted across campus, academic robes flying as they ran to get to their lecture on Medieval literature.
"Does the Professor give out detentions?" Nate asked quickly, his voice winded.
"Only if you can't recite something he likes." Peter, equally winded, shot back.
"Damn!" Nate, who liked to brag he never read anything for a course (which was entirely untrue) certainly never memorized anything. Peter, on the other hand, might be able to pull something out of his head at the last moment.
They barreled into lecture just as the Professor was beginning his talk. He glared at them, and beckoned them to the front of the class.
"Kincade and…Pensevie, isn't it? Oversleep, did we?"
The pair nodded in unison.
"Well then. If you'd like to spare yourselves the dubious honor of returning here after dinner tonight to copy lines, perhaps you might enlighten us with a little bit of poetry." The Professor sat back on his desk, waiting. "Mr. Kincade? We are waiting."
Nate scuffled his shoes and shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir…I don't know anything."
The Professor frowned, and turned to Peter. "Mr. Pensevie?"
Peter opened his mouth, finding his tongue had gone dry, and licked his lips nervously. Then he started the first thing that came into his head.
"There was a land, across the sea, with rolling fields of green
The star of castles shimmered there, a white light not unseen
Cair Paravel, beside the sea, with four thrones at its heart
'Twas there that the great mysteries of Narnia should start
For when four thrones beheld four kings all made of Adam's blood
Spring should begin in Narnia, and bold new hope should bud."
The professor looked amused. "Mr. Pensevie, did you make that up yourself?"
Peter shook his head, this being the truth; Mr. Tumnus, appointed poet of the realm, had come up with those lines, and a great many more besides.
"Well, since I have never heard of Narnia, or the castle at Cair Paravel, I must deduce that this is some newer poet I have not read yet. Very well delivered, by the way. Mr. Pensevie, take your seat. Mr. Kincade, detention, see me after class for a time." Thus, the lecture began.
It was nearly half way through the lecture when the Professor did something odd and asked for a volunteer. No one raised a hand. "Right then. Mr. Kincade, come here. Take this" He handed Nate a broadsword, which nate almost dropped at the weight, "and wait here." The Professor came back a few moments later with a large pasteboard cut out of what looked to be Grendel. Of course, there was a rather unwieldy crayon scrawl across his eyes, but he looked ferocious, all the same. A few people snickered at the crayon, and the Professor glanced at it. "And that is what happens when you borrow your daughter's crayons and then leave the room for a moment." He supplied good naturedly. "Now, Mr. Kincade, would you mind taking a swing at Grendal here for me?"
"If I could lift this thing…" Nate said, struggling a little. He managed to bring the sword up and send it crashing down again- Grendal didn't bat an eyelash as he lost a bit of a finger.
"Anyone else want to try? How about you, Mr. Pensevie?" He caught Peter gazing at the sword and remembering his own, probably hanging on some wall somewhere in Narnia. Why was it they were doing this again? He'd forgotten.
Peter looked around and cautiously got up out of his seat, took the sword from Nate, gave it a few practice hefts first, and then, to the amazement of all, cleanly took of Grendal's massive arm with a whistling sound as the sword cut air, paper and cardboard.
The Professor was impressed. "Well, well, Mr. Pensevie, you are a box of tricks today, aren't you? Take your seats, please, you two."
The lecture continued without further incident, but after class Peter was mobbed by fellows he'd never even talked to before, wondering where he'd learned to do that.
"Oh, out in the country." He said vaguely. "My brother and I got really bored, and, well, my little sis likes playacting…"
"Have you considered trying out for the play? We're in need of a few good actors to strut the boards with." A thin, lanky fellow Peter knew only as 'Shakespeare', called so because he was a thespian, through and through. "And someone with your skill with a sword could probably get a big part in 'The Swan Song.'"
"The Swan Song?" Peter asked, dubious. Shakespeare nodded.
"Come to auditions- our common room, 5 o'clock on Friday. Won't take ten minutes." The thespian assured him.
"How did you learn to do that?" Nate asked, rubbing his arms as they walked to their dorm.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." Peter said, speeding up his pace to get to lunch on time to get a good seat and a decent slice of shepherd's pie.
"Try me!" Nate shouted after him, running to catch up.