Part Three: Eclipse
"I bring you grave tidings, O Narnia."
I saw Peter brace himself, standing straighter as he faced the Dragon. He clearly anticipated terrible news and I felt myself imitate him. What news could be so dire that one such as this should act as messenger? "Are these tidings from Over Sea, good Dawn Treader?"
"Only in the sense that the source of these tidings has been felt there and elsewhere," said he.
I stepped forward into that biting aura of cold surrounding our guest. The frost at his feet was turning to milky white ice and spreading down the railing to the floor. "You came from the direction of Proxena," I said, searching for the heart of the matter.
Those purple eyes fixed upon me. "She is the reason I have been sent to Narnia."
"Pray explain, sir," Peter pressed. His voice, though steady, was anxious.
Dawn Treader drew another deep breath, ice crystals showering off his long, graceful body, and when in a blur of motion he shook his head, snow flew in all directions from his ruff. I don't think he found the warmth of summer very comfortable.
"The star, Proxena, is passing from this realm. She is dying."
We were silent, shocked by this news. No one had ever considered that the stars could die. It was unheard of, unthinkable . . . but clearly not impossible. A rill of confusion and surprise spread among those assembled.
"Dying?" gasped Susan, drawing a step nearer. "H-how? Why?"
The deep voice was distant and so very sad. Dawn Treader spoke slowly, as if he was reluctant to believe his own words. "Proxena is amongst the youngest of the stars. She was never as strong as her brothers and sisters. Always smaller, always weaker, she was brighter only because her mother the moon kept her close and under her watchful gaze. Still, Proxena has danced and sung with her siblings, exalting in the simple glory of existence, bringing the winds, giving beauty."
No one moved. Not a word was said. We were intent upon the Emperor's servant, as amazed at him as at what he was saying.
"And so in her joy, she has used up her life. She refused to give less than all despite the pleas of her father and mother. Proxena has exhausted her span, and so she will pass from this realm."
Peter glanced at the sky where Proxena should have been, but Dawn Treader was too brilliant to see past. "What will happen?"
The Dragon shifted. Ice shattered from around his feet as he rose up upon his back legs. His body stayed curved as he balanced atop the railing, like some gigantic snake, and it took several seconds for the after-images to fade before we could see him clearly. So cold was he that the air of the balcony was as biting as the most bitter winter night, and the flowering vines twisting through the railings were covered with frost. The pearl he clutched glowed as bright as the moon - a cool, blue-white color.
"I do not know," he admitted to Peter. He looked around at us all, and for all his power and wisdom and age, he was as helpless as we. "Such a thing has never happened before in Narnia."
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"But stars burn for millions, maybe billions of years!" exclaimed Eustace, unable to contain the scientist within any longer. "You said the other day your reign was a thousand years after Narnia was created!"
"Stars are also monstrous balls of burning gas where we come from, cousin, not intelligent beings. You're not in Cambridgeshire any more."
Reepicheep listened to this confusing exchange and quietly scoffed at the notion of stars being anything other than a race unto themselves. He gave Eustace a gentle poke with his tiny paw and admonished, "It is not meet that you interrupt a story teller or a king. Shh!"
There was a muttering as the listening sailors agreed with the Mouse and a dozen or more voices added their own hisses for quiet. Outnumbered, Eustace settled down again.
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I remember that we were silent, waiting for Dawn Treader to continue. He was still, finally, his long tail hanging down for balance and a fog of frosty air forming around him, giving him his own cloud bank that rose up in ghostly, curling wisps.
"And so I have delivered my tidings," said he, "now I must discharge my duties. My master's son, the great Aslan" – and here he paused to bow deeply at the mention of the Lion's name – "has sent me to escort the moon to her daughter's side, that they might share these last moments of life."
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"Hold on, Edmund!" ordered Eustace, his raised voice cutting through my tale and making almost everyone within earshot jump. "Stop right there!"
I obeyed, waiting in expectation. Eustace was almost sputtering, poor chap. He glared at Reepicheep when the Mouse opened his mouth to tell him to shush again, as if daring the knight to interrupt. Wisely, the Mouse left this among cousins.
"You can't just snatch the moon away! What about the tides? Gravity? You can't stop the ocean!"
I felt a surge of affection for my poor, ignorant cousin - proof positive that miracles existed. He was trying so hard to comprehend and accept even though his knowledge of the physical world he had left didn't always apply to the world he was now occupying. Smiling, I held my hand up and he calmed a bit. That he was willing to listen spoke volumes of how far he had come these past few days.
"Let me finish, Eustace. That's exactly what happened."
"But -"
Finally it was my turn. "Shhh!"
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I knew a rush of uncertainty at his words. Would that not throw nature into chaos? Cheroom, standing close beside me, let out a gasp that was echoed by Oreius. The Centaurs understood quicker than any of this what this meant. Peter looked at them for clarification, but our guest from Over Sea explained instead.
"Until the moon returns to her place in the heavens and resumes her course along her path in the sky, she will not be seen or felt upon Narnia. There will be no tides, no moonlight, no phases of her countenance to tally the passage of days."
"Proxena?" asked Susan.
"Will not rise again," the Dragon finished.
"How long . . . ?"
"Days, perhaps hours remain to her, Gentle Queen."
Susan made a tiny sound of dismay. Lucy inched forward, though the palace guards didn't allow her to get as close to Dawn Treader as Peter and I. "Can't we . . . I mean, isn't there something we can do, Sir? Something?" she ended in a helpless whisper. "Anything?"
Peter spoke next. "My sister speaks for us all. Is there naught we can do for Proxena or her family? Speak! If it is within our powers, we shall do it."
Dawn Treader looked long and hard upon Narnia's High King, a gaze that was as intense as the waves of cold radiating from his form, and the pearl glowed brighter still. Peter matched the look, unafraid, his concern and offer genuine. A long moment passed as two strong and worthy wills met in silent communion. It seemed as if the Dragon was looking into Peter's very soul, and later on Peter told me he had exactly that sensation. Dawn Treader was learning Peter, and through him, all of us.
"Aslan" – and here he bowed again – "has chosen well," Dawn Treader said, deep emotion and satisfaction in his tone. "I see now why the moon and sun are so fond of you four."
Peter started, released from whatever it was about the Emperor's servant that had held him transfixed, and he shivered with cold. I was at his side instantly, my feet slipping on the icy floor, and he seized me to keep me from falling even as I seized him to make certain he was well. He waved back any assistance, unharmed by the contact, and we steadied each other.
"Tell us what we can do," Peter insisted, seemingly unaware that his boots were freezing to the floor of the balcony right along with mine.
"You can mourn," said Dawn Treader. His tail lashed the air, crackling away a layer of ice. "Mourn for the loss of beauty in this world. For one less voice singing the glory of creation. For one less source of light. Mourn for a mother and father who are losing a beloved child. Mourn, O Narnia, your loss of something precious and irreplaceable, and remember. Remember Proxena, the moon's fair daughter."
"We shall," promised Peter. "All of Narnia will know and keep watch, good Dawn Treader, and we shall tell as much of the world as we are able of Proxena's life."
Dawn Treaded nodded in acknowledgement, and then he slowly looked to the moon hanging full and bright overhead. "Be not alarmed when I draw the veil of night across her brow and usher her from the sky. The stars will remain, and their dance will go on, the moon will return. And so I bid farewell to the kings and queens of Narnia. Blessings upon you and long may you reign."
"Blessings upon you and your voyage, Dawn Treader," said I. "You have our thanks for bringing us these tidings, sad though they are."
The Dragon actually gave me a faint smile: his eyes seemed to soften and the long, trailing tendrils curled up at the tips. "Love outlasts sadness, young king, and we each of us have our role in this great story that knows no end. Yours will be a glorious chapter indeed. And so, farewell."
In a shower of ice crystals and a blur of energy, he bowed very deeply. We bowed in return. When we looked up, Dawn Treader was already in the air. An aurora of purple and green spread across the sky for one moment, and then in a streak of burning white light as when the stars throw down their spears, he darted towards the moon and vanished from sight.
"Peter?" I wondered, completely numb with cold from the knees down.
He recognized my tone, and softly muttered, "No, Ed, I can't move my feet either."
No one else spoke. We watched, transfixed, and waited to see what would happen.
As gradually as the moon rises or sets, a shadow began to creep up the face of the moon. It started at the bottom as Dawn Treader slowly draped the shining orb in mourning robes. As darkness spread across the sky and the land I felt a tightness in my chest. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, for I had seen death many times and in many forms and I knew the pain was grief. Familiarity did not ease the sense of aching loss, and I was glad when Peter laid his hand on my shoulder.
Without looking away, my brother motioned for one of the guards. "Go roust the scribes and the couriers. We must get word across the land and to the merfolk. We will send word to Galma and Terabinthia, to King Lune and the Tisroc, to every land and island and people known. We will tell the whole world so they, too, can remember Proxena."
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"So did they?" demanded Eustace.
I leaned back, resting my hand on the deck of the ship. "Ask Caspian."
Eustace looked to Narnia's present king. Caspian smiled and said, "I first learned the story of Proxena from my nurse, and Dr. Cornelius told me more, especially about Dawn Treader, though most of the finer details were lost to time. My uncle refused to believe that Narnia could ever have a lunar eclipse or Dragons and I knew better than to try to convince him." He grinned at Lucy and then at me. "I never thought to hear the story in full, let alone from eye witnesses. But yes, Eustace, they remembered. The whole world knows the name of Proxena."
A soft murmuring from the sailors and officers confirmed his words. Peter's promise had outdone the Telmarine invaders, which I knew would please him.
Eustace mulled Caspian's words over, fidgeting with one of the chess pieces. "But I can see why you named the ship Dawn Treader and not for Proxena."
"Dr. Cornelius thought I should name it after the star," admitted Caspian, "but I thought a ship built for exploring would do better to be named for another traveler."
Reepicheep was growing antsy. By the tilt of his whiskers and the twitching of his tail I knew he was anxious to hear the rest of the story. I caught Lucy's eye and she smiled at me as if to say I was quite the story teller after all.
"So," I said, capturing all attention again. "Messengers were sent far and wide, to the depths of the ocean to the Dancing Lawn, the Marches, the Lantern Waste, and every point between and beyond . . ."