The Stone Gryphon, Part 1: Oxfordshire 1942
Chapter 8
Lions' Business
In which there is a look back and Susan and Edmund discuss posh frocks and foggy bottoms in the swamp.
They were careening toward total bedlam. A department store had, to all appearances, burst apart in the girls' room. Edmund knew his and Peter's room was no better, but with more socks and books, and less frippery. At this point, they were going to be forgetting things simply because they would not be able to find them.
"Peter!" They all heard their mother shriek from the bottom of the stair. "Do you have enough…"
A looming bulk leaning in the doorway, Peter didn't even wait. Calling back over his shoulder, he bellowed, "Yes, Mum. I'm packed. I have everything."
"Do you have…"
"Yes!"
"What about…"
"Yes!"
"Edmund! Did you pack enough pants?"
Stark raving mad. Groaning, Edmund tipped backwards onto Susan's bed, with a go ahead wave of his hand toward Peter.
"Yes!" Peter yelled back, pitching his voice a bit higher.
"Edmund! Get off my hat!" Susan hissed.
He rolled over, pulled the thing out, and flipped the boater toward Susan's opened, very neatly packed, steamer trunk. The hat sailed across the room and settled squarely in the trunk.
"Lucy! I need you downstairs now!" A tinge of panic had crept into Mum's voice.
"She'll be down in a moment, Mum. Really! I'll help!" Peter called back down.
There was a loud crunch and a word drifted up the stair that they did not often hear their mother utter.
"It will be fine, Lucy, really," Susan soothed, pulling their youngest sister into a tighter hug. The girls were both huddled on Lucy's bed. "You'll be with Edmund. I'm sure we'll be able to send letters from America. Peter will even write. " A fixed glare from Susan to her older brother demanded that letters had better be forthcoming, or, High King or not, he would have to answer to her for his failure.
"No he won't!" Lucy mumbled into Susan's shoulder, still sniffling. "It's going to be horrid."
"I will write," Peter assured her. "And it won't be that bad."
It was horrendous and he could stand it no longer. The heel of one of Susan's evil shoes was poking him in the ear. Edmund yanked it out from under his shoulder and began tossing into the air this female torture device masquerading as footwear. "Lucy! Our brother and sister are lying to us. It's going to be ghastly at Harold and Alberta's. You and I know it's going to be ghastly, and we will just have to make the best of it. Just think, they can come visit us on the first Sunday of every month as you and I grow old together, mouldering in prison after we are convicted of murdering our cousin."
"Edmund!"
"Susan!" he mimicked back. Just a bit higher and harder and he might be able to impale the wickedly small heel of the shoe in the ceiling.
Lucy snickered, which was the most encouraging sound they'd heard from her in three days.
Lunging forward with the finesse of the swordsman he still was, Peter snagged the shoe in mid-arc, and sent it with a tip into the trunk to join the boater.
"Come on, Lu." Peter held a hand out. "Let's go help Mum fold laundry before she goes completely round the bend."
Lucy struggled up and moved from Susan's arms to Peter's. "Are you both coming too?"
Edmund pulled himself upright and caught a hand signal from Susan. "No, not yet. We'll be down in a bit."
Peter gave them one his special, severe, Most Royal Frowns; Lucy's frown was more quizzical.
"It's Lions' business," Susan said.
The Most Royal Frown deepened. The MRF, however, tended to forget that his younger brother and sister were Royal as well and had lived with the MRF all their lives, plus an additional fifteen years or so. They were both quite immune to its effects.
Standing, Edmund shooed his brother and sister toward the door. "Go on, Heart and Soul. Scat! This is a Concert of Minds. We will tell you in due time."
The door shut on the glower of the MRF.
Edmund scooped another high heeled shoe off the floor and tossed it into the steamer. "Sorry," he felt obligated to say as Susan winced.
"Lion's business?" he asked.
"Narnia is not the only nation with a Lion as its emblem." Susan would chide so when he spoke with something less than the customary acumen his sister expected. "Lions figure prominently in the official blazon of the United Kingdom as well."
"Right." She shouldn't have to remind me of that. Particularly at this moment.
"Get the notebook, please, would you Edmund? It's right on top in the trunk."
Carefully setting her precious shoes aside, he lifted the plain notebook out and joined her on Lucy's bed. He had not had time to organize his own notes especially, and pulled the scraps from his pocket as he handed the book to his sister.
In the carefully written pages she turned, he saw both her neat script and their personal cipher. "The more I read and overhear, the less I understand it," Susan said, settling on a page of code. "Am I missing something, Edmund? Is there some aspect to this trip that makes even the remotest bit of sense?"
"No. It's a load of rubbish." He unfolded one scrap of paper. "Here, I found this in their bedroom."
"Mum's packing list!" Susan was both appalled and impressed. "No wonder she's gone spare."
"I know. I feel badly, but didn't have time to copy and return it. I'll give it to her as soon as we are done." He tapped the paper. "The point is, if Father is on leave to lecture, why is she packing his uniforms? All of them? And the medals?"
"Plainly, he is not lecturing."
"I have come to doubt he is even on leave," Edmund added.
Susan scowled. There all were, by necessity, fairly skilled at fibbing to others. Lucy tended to be emotional about it, and Peter would erect great verbal constructs to avoid it, which did sometimes give him away when he wasn't careful. While neither he nor Susan had the same difficulty, she took great offense when others lied to her. As she reasoned, if someone kept information from her because of her age or sex, it was not then fair to blame her age and sex for the resulting poor decision.
"You would understand this better than I, but it does seem that Mum is bringing every posh frock she owns."
Looking over the list, Susan said after a moment, "She is bringing everything, regardless of season or style, which truly is nerves, and not reasonable at all. She's been after me to do the same." Her face twisted into a slight wince of dissatisfaction. "Not that I really have that much. With clothing rationed as it is, we're really not in a position to put our best forward."
To attribute Susan's preoccupation with outward appearances to vanity was far too simplistic a characterization of her subtlety. Susan had a public face, and a private one. Like an actress, she would use her clothing, bearing, and style as circumstances dictated, to blend, to distinguish, to dominate, to disappear. Where warranted, she would happily don ill-fitting, rationed, threadbare clothing. However, if their parents were packing in anticipation of wearing their dress uniforms, Susan would deem it necessary to have hers as well and would feel the absence acutely.
"Wouldn't you be better off buying the frocks or whatever was appropriate once you arrive? That's what you would do in Narnia, when you wanted to be sure you were adhering to local custom."
Susan folded the packing list carefully and handed it back to him with a quick hug. "You are absolutely correct, Edmund. Nor is clothing rationed in America as strictly as it is here."
Shuffling the papers in his hands, he said, "To the problem at hand, if he is not lecturing, what is Father doing there?"
"There is nothing remotely academic in the cables. They are all about our …"
"Cables?" Edmund interrupted. Now it was his turn to be appalled and impressed. "And you were on me for a packing list?"
"If Father is a spy, he has much to learn. At the very least, he should lock his satchel before bed."
"It would be easy enough to pick, regardless."
They both shared a secret smile. It had been a Dwarf who had taught them that particular skill. Like archery, sword play, knifework, diplomacy and flirtation, lockpicking operated on much the same principles, both Here as well as There.
"Mum doesn't know it yet, but someone has learned she can type and take shorthand. She has been detailed for the summer to the British Embassy in Washington."
Edmund wondered when Father would tell Mum that – if he were wise, not until they had arrived safely in America. "So much for her vacation."
"Vacation!" Susan bit the word out with no small amount of contempt. "It's ridiculous, Edmund. We simply have no business crossing the Atlantic, certainly not for a vacation. German U-boats are attacking merchant ships up and down the East Coast of America. It's no wonder Mum and Father are panicked about the crossing."
"That's what suggested to me that he is not really on leave. I don't think our parents would agree to this journey given the dire circumstances unless there are orders involved of some sort. Do the cables say anything about the arrangements?"
Susan turned to another page of code, reviewing it. He looked over her shoulder, following along as she read. "We are traveling by convoy in a troop transport across what I assume is a northern route into Halifax, Nova Scotia. From there, we take rail to New York. We're to meet with Mr. Stephenson or his deputy at the British Security Coordination. After that, it becomes very vague. Father may be dividing his time between New York and Washington; my impression is that his duties are still evolving. Mum and I will go on to Washington. They've rented a flat for us near the Embassy."
Her bland recitation of the route brought home forcefully how deadly serious this was, for all of them. "Susan?"
She looked up from her notes. "Yes?"
Edmund cleared his throat. "About those U-boats..."
Susan shrugged and corrected an entry in the notebook with her pencil; it looked like she had misspelled "Nova Scotia." "If our convoy is hit, I will be with Aslan again."
His sister was brave. By the Lion, he'd seen her cool resolve a hundred times over. Still, the helplessness of such a death would be horrible. He put a gentle hand on her arm.
"It would be understandable if you were frightened, Susan. Mum and Father obviously are."
"I am not afraid, at least not about the crossing. I simply do not believe Aslan sent me away from Narnia only to burn and drown in the ocean." Her hair had fallen in a curtain hiding her face; her hand paused in her annotations. When she spoke, it was with all the firm gentleness and wisdom for which she had been renowned. "Edmund, I would have stayed, with Caspian if need be, for the good of Narnia. But, Aslan did not so will it; Narnia is closed to me now. Before sending me back, He said there were others tasks for me."
Leaving the pencil to mark the page, Susan flipped her notebook to the inside cover.
The seal of the United Kingdom stared back, the three lions passant guardant in the first and fourth quadrants, and the golden crowned Lion Rampant as the dexter supporter opposite the Unicorn. She had likely cut the image from some book or government pamphlet. Susan ran her fingers over the seal.
"We all bore something very like this Lion Rampant for years, Edmund. Do you think I've gone as daft as Mum because I believe that there must be a connection between what I did There, and what I am intended to do Here?"
He had always thought of the worlds as separate and unrelated. There. Here. Narnia. England. Yet, while inside the Wardrobe they had fought and won wars and innumerable skirmishes, prevailed against brutal tyrants, twice, and rebuilt a land that had been terrorized by an occupying force for one hundred years. Was it really so different? Could he seriously look at the seal of the United Kingdom and believe it a mere coincidence?
He would not presume to know the Lion's great purposes. On the other hand, "Aslan never acted without purpose," he finally said.
"You see it too, then; I knew you would," she said with some smug satisfaction. "And so, as I prepare for this journey, like so many others that have gone before, you can understand why I find my thoughts returning to our favorite Good Beasts." There was a hint of slyness in her tone.
"Rats and Crows."
"Yes," she replied softly, fingertips still tracing the Lions.
Rats and Crows. That had been their catchphrase, both a cipher and, literally, descriptive of the network they had built together in defense of Narnia. Now she was going to America with Father and Mum on the very flimsiest of pretexts. Leave it to Susan to be the first of them to find and embrace a calling on this side of the Wardrobe.
"I find it ironic, I suppose, that if our Father has been drawn into subterfuge or diplomacy, that it is likely you could teach him the craft of it, Susan."
She raised her eyes to his and nodded. "That is how I have begun to see it." Now she clasped his hand tightly. "I don't fear dying in the Atlantic, Edmund. I do fear going into this situation blind, with so little intelligence."
"I've done what I can." He returned her touch, then fished for his remaining notes and unfolded another scrap as she returned to the marked page of her own notebook. "I've not had time to learn much; the papers I have reviewed are in my room and I will give them to you before you go. In a nut, Mr. Stephenson is a wealthy Canadian with all sort of English business interests. He's an inventor, industrialist, World War I hero, that sort of thing. What he is doing in New York hiring writers and logicians like Father is anyone's guess."
Susan tapped her pencil with some small modicum of irritation, never fond of his temporizing. "I'm not interested in anyone's guess, Edmund. I need facts, and I want your opinion."
It did sometimes seem that his elder sister forgot that he did not have a King's access and resources here. There was no network of Rats and Crows throughout the Known Lands to relay intelligence to the spiders, runners, and handlers who held the strings that led back to Cair Paravel. "Susan," he replied, a bit too patiently, "everything I know is gleaned from the heavily censored papers, the same as everyone else."
She just arched an eyebrow in challenge, pencil still tapping.
Oh very well. "The current prevailing view is that while the Pacific is all fine and well, England needs the Americans fully engaged on this side of the Atlantic or we'll all be speaking German in less than two years."
"Or we'll all be dead," Susan added helpfully, returning to her notetaking. "Although if all of Europe, Africa and Asia fall to fascism, I suppose the trains might run on time."
Edmund laughed, in a hollow, gallows sort of way. It might be amusing if it were not so horribly probable. "I did see one opinion paper say that you can count upon the Americans to do the right thing, but only after they have exhausted every other option."
He continued, dutifully reporting so that his sister would be as fully briefed as the circumstances permitted. The quality of the information was really pitiful, but it was all they had. If this was His will at work, they would have to trust to Aslan to guide her. "There are some very ardent and respected voices in the American Congress and elsewhere, going as high as Vice President Wallace, who really believe the world would be better off without the British Empire; if the Germans break us of that, perhaps, it is reasoned, it would be for the best."
"One does wonder how they can criticize our policies in India, yet seemingly not condemn Hitler." She flared with a hint of anger. "That is a view, of course, I shall keep to myself."
"Again though, what role a Canadian millionaire has in this very dodgy business and what contribution he sees someone like Father making, I cannot adequately explain, except with wild conjecture. Do the cables give any clue?"
Susan glanced at her cipher, quickly skimming what she had copied from their father's papers. Her finger was moving too rapidly down the page for Edmund to follow. "Some of their opacity makes a bit more sense actually, in light of what you have just said. It does occur to me that if Americans must be convinced to do the right thing, perhaps the British might be planting propaganda to try to push America into more fully supporting England in the Europe and North Africa ."
"Hence, writers and logicians."
Susan shrugged. "It is possible. Also, at first I was very confused by the prospect that England might be spying on her allies, until I considered that we did precisely the same thing. Archenland was our friend and the Lone Islands were part of our kingdom. Yet, we had agents among our allies, as well as among our enemies so that they might direct policy in our favor at need. I would assume Churchill does the same."
There was another possibility as well. "Rats and Crows were also very useful for spreading rumors we wished to circulate in foreign courts. I could see some applicability of a strategy like that in America, as well."
They had learned just how effective that rumormongering had been from Aravis. The runaway Tarkheena had overheard the Tisroc repeat back, nearly verbatim, the rumor they had planted in his Court. The Narnian monarchs, young though they were, had killed the old enchantress and her never-ending winter with aid of strong magic and were supported by a demon of hideous aspect and irresistible maleficence who appeared in the shape of a Lion. A widely circulated report that any attack upon Narnia was truly a dark and doubtful enterprise would, he and Susan had hoped, give their would-be enemies pause. The ploy had, very nearly, succeeded completely. Edmund had later used the Rats and Crows to assure that those who would war with Narnia knew of Rabadash's transformation. There were fates worse than that of an ass and, it was rumored, the wrath and sorcery of the free Northern land would surely be unleashed upon Her enemies in even more terrible ways if Narnia's peace was disturbed again.
Susan sighed a little and closed her notebook. "I want to believe this is why I am going, Edmund. Yet, if it is, it's a tall order. To all appearances, I am only fifteen, and it will be so difficult to accomplish anything with such a handicap."
Edmund snorted in disbelief. "Oh what a lot of rot, Susan. First, if all you do is prevent Father and Mum from doing anything stupid, count it a significant success."
"As for age," he gestured toward her vanity now piled high with cosmetics, scarves, feminine paraphernalia, and the debris of hurried packing. "Surely you are bringing your face? Your lipsticks, stockings and whatnot?"
She nodded, smiling at his near epithet. She knew he did not approve of what women would do to themselves to advance their purposes, although he understood and even appreciated the utility of it. "With the face and high heeled shoes, you can pass for eighteen to twenty with no difficulty at all."
Susan looked more heartened at that. "It is a bit easier, having already been that age once before. In fact, I do prefer it, as I do not always have to check what I say to assure it is ahhhh…."
"Experientially appropriate?" He finished, through a grin. It was a problem they all had, possessing sophistication and understanding that children, even those living through the Blitz, really should not have.
Susan laughed and threw her arms about him for a hug. "I am going to miss you, Edmund. I cannot fathom how I shall do this without you."
He pulled her into a tighter embrace. "You will be brilliant. You cannot help but be brilliant. I'm sure of it. You'll have to write me all about it."
"About that." Susan pulled away and retrieved her notebook. "A cable said that we will be able to write and that our letters will go through the Embassy, back to England, with a diplomatic courier. You all will be able to respond to us the same way, through the War Office. That is the good news."
"And the bad?"
"It will all be cleared through censors first."
"Oh. Yes, I suppose it would be. Which means…" He trailed off, considering the unpleasant prospect.
"Precisely. I am going to have to be very careful in how I describe the situation and ask for your advice, and you will have to exercise similar caution in responding. We plainly cannot use our cipher, either."
He mulled it over. Use of anything peculiar would raise questions best avoided. They needed something that was subtle, personal and idiosyncratic to him and Susan, and that could pass without comment.
It was so blindingly obvious.
"I know, Su! Use Narnia."
Susan lit up as he said it, easily following the scheme. "Oh yes, that would work. If I describe it in Narnian terms, with Narnian names and places, you will understand the reference well enough."
"Put them off further, take it another step!" Edmund exclaimed, feeling very enthusiastic about the plan. "Pretend it is a story that you are telling your younger brother and sister. If you phrase it in terms of talking animals, centaurs and giants, any censor will just assume it is a silly game among children. I'll respond in kind and no one will be the wiser."
"You are brilliant, Edmund. That will work perfectly." She quickly tore out a sheet of paper from her notebook. "Let's just jot down a few names now that we know will come up so we have a common Key." She began quickly writing. "I'll use Lune and Iris for Father and Mum; Archenland will be New York. Mr. Stephenson, his deputies, the BSC, they will all, collectively, be Sallowpad."
That would have pleased the old Raven and the Chief of the Narnian Murder. "Use others from our network as you need," Edmund said, warming to the idea. "I will catch enough to know your meaning. What about Washington, do you want to use Cair Paravel?"
Susan frowned and shook her head. "Certainly not. Washington, by all accounts is a wretched, sweltering, mosquito-filled swamp. Did you know it is considered a tropical posting, like India?"
He grimaced. "Ugh. I had no idea it was like that."
"Summers are horrid and winters are muddy. Their foreign office is in a place called foggy bottom. That simply cannot signify anything good."
Tapping her pencil thoughtfully to her lips, Susan finally announced, "Yes, I have it. Washington shall be Tashbaan, and President Roosevelt shall be the Tisroc."
"Susan!" Edmund was truly horrified. "You cannot go into this thinking in such terms."
Susan awarded him a frosty look. "It is my story, brother, and I shall refer to them as I deem appropriate. Do not tell me what I can and cannot do."
"But,"
Susan was already writing the names into her Key. "My personal history aside, I do not believe we can yet refer to America truly as our ally, Edmund. So, maybe they have a base in Ireland. American pilots are not yet flying in Europe; American soldiers are not yet dying in Africa. Until they really and truly join us, they are against us."
At that extremely tense moment, there was knock on the door. "Edmund? Susan?" It was His MRF-ness.
"Come in, Peter," Susan called.
Edmund shot her a dirty look. "We are not done with this, Susan."
Peter strolled into the noticeably chilly room. "Is the Concert concluded… yet?" His tone implied that it better well be.
"Yes," Susan said quickly; "No," Edmund contradicted.
Edmund shoved the purloined packing list at Peter. "Give this to Mum. It should keep you all occupied until Susan and I finish this business."
It was really remarkable how Peter could fill a space with his authority. No crown, no sword, only sixteen, and still he managed it. "Lucy and Mum do not need your squabbling now," he barked. "Resolve your differences and then come downstairs and help as you ought."
There was a flash of rebellion in Susan's eyes, but Peter would not deign to argue with her. It was his command, but couched as an appeal to a higher need that made them absolute heels if they did not obey. With that, the High King turned and went back out the door, the room now rather warmer than it had been when he entered.
"I hope he doesn't look at the list," Edmund murmured, rising and shutting the door again. "He'll be really angry then."
"He won't," Susan assured.
Probably not. Peter was both rather high minded, and operated under the assumption that if Susan and Edmund did such things, he did not need to do so. He understood it well enough, and appreciated its effects, but in the division of labour, Rat and Crow was their business.
Susan was already copying her Key into the notebook, using their cipher. "I will finish this up, and then we can go help Mum."
"Susan," he began.
"Don't, Edmund. I know what you would say. You are wrong."
She continued writing in the notebook, ignoring him. Finishing the Key, she closed the notebook, set it on the bed, and wordlessly handed him his copy. He stared at the words. Tashbaan. Tisroc. He sincerely hoped that in another month he would not read the name Rabadash.
Rising, she crossed to the vanity and began picking through the scattered frippery, assembling the elements she would need for the faces she would wear in America. He had no idea what it all was. He did know how very well she could use it. The particulars had been a bit different in Narnia where she had relied upon jewels, ornaments, and gowns. She had worn her faces for the good of Narnia. Now, she would do so for England. Edmund did not want her going into this feeling she had to do so in order to prove her worth.
Divining his thoughts, for certainly she understood his concerns, Susan finally sighed, pausing as she placed slim tubes of lipstick into a small red bag.
"Tashbaan was my failure. Good Beasts and men died because of my folly. I will not make such a mistake ever again."
He crossed the room, joining her at the ridiculously feminine table. She stiffened as he put his hands on her shoulders. "Susan, it wasn't your fault. It…"
"Edmund," she cut in, shrugging off his hands and the consolation he offered, "I will not hear it. Being forgiven does not eliminate the guilt one feels. Surely you of all people understand that?"
He went cold. As cold as Jadis had been. Only Susan ever spoke thus. It enraged him, both because she would mention it at all, and that she would equate her ill judgment with his betrayal. Edmund found he was clenching his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms, willing control. He had to remember this was about Susan, not his own failure, long past and for which he had long since atoned, many times over. To wallow in his own might-have-beens would not aid his sister now.
In the vanity mirror, their eyes met and Susan's countenance twisted in self reproach. "Forgive me, brother." She turned back to face him, and took his hands in hers, prying his fingers apart. His nails had left dark half moon marks in his hands.
"I know you mean well, Edmund, but I do not want to forget my mistake. I must make reparations for it, as you so often did."
She never did fight fair.
"Don't go into this, Susan, believing it is your penance," he pleaded, genuinely fearing for her. "It is not. You have nothing to atone for."
"Narnia is over for me, Edmund. She does not need me and I can never repay her for what I caused. England calls me now, and I will answer. I will do what I must."
He stared down at their clasped hands, feeling as apprehensive as he ever had. I must trust her and place my faith in Aslan. He will not lead her astray.
Susan raised her fingers to his chin, bringing his downcast eyes to her. His sister was so strong, so shrewd, so sensible, it shattered him to think she felt the need to make reparations for what those bastards had done to her. They had stripped her of her confidence, and made her doubt her own wisdom and worth.
"Will you bless me, brother? You always do that so beautifully." Edmund swallowed hard, and nodded. She bowed her head; he set his hands gently upon her crown.
"Aslan, King of All, First and Last, Your gentle daughter begins her journey. Do thou guard her that she may reach its end. Grant the light of Your wisdom to her path. Instill in her an abiding awareness of her duty to You, to her country, to her fellows. Guide her in each thought, word and deed, that Your daughter may fulfill Your Will. These things, Your humble servant asks."
Shaking, he dropped his hands. Susan threw her arms around him. "Thank you, Edmund," she whispered in his ear. "Aslan guard your journey and don't murder Eustace, or I shall be very cross with you indeed."
The Gentle Queen darted around him, and out the door.
Chapter 9
Cross-pollination
In which Richard and Peter discuss tawdry affairs, mighty deeds, and foul-tempered hummingbirds.
I've tried to cut and paste a link to the United Kingdom Royal Coat of Arms but to no avail. If you wish to see it, try googling that term.
A special thanks to Miniver who nudged me to do more with Susan's story than pack her and the parents off to New York and Washington under rather dubious circumstances.