The Stone Gryphon, Part 1, Oxfordshire 1942
Chapter 11 Cross-Pollination, Part 3
Promiscuous songbirds, formidable bloodhounds, cunning corvids, and observer bias. Rated T for some frank observations about Eagle courtship rituals and a teensy bit of violence.
Lots of tie-ins to By Royal Decree as well.
"So, tell me about songbirds," Richard said as they watched a robin pair try to feed a fledgling something far too big and spindly for so delicate a throat. An inexperienced couple, perhaps.
Peter was leaning against the garden wall, absolutely entranced by the escapades. To the birds, he said, "I think something softer might go down more easily, Friends." He leaned over and turned some of the garden compost over with his fingers, and then a rock. Finding an earthworm, he pulled it out and set the squirmy thing on a branch near the nest.
Dusting off his hands, Peter said, "Marital advice. That's what they needed. Male and female both."
"High King?"
"Yes, Lady Willa?"
"The Songbirds you wished to speak to are out on the terrace."
"Excellent. Thank you, Good Rat."
"High King?"
"The answer is no, Lady."
"But, Your Majesty…"
"No, Lady Willa, you may not rename the Narnian intelligence services to be 'His Majesty The King Edmund's Royal Murder.'"
There was a bit of cheese left on his plate from luncheon. Peter took it and handed it down to the noble, if bloodthirsty, Rat Doe. "Thank you for your trouble, Lady Willa."
She sighed mightily, whiskers all a drooping. She was not so dejected as to refuse the cheese. "Thwank u Ng Ptr." She had to mumble with the cheese crammed in her mouth, crumbs spilling out the corners. Being Narnian meant, among other things, making allowances for different manners at table. Turning tail, the Rat scampered off.
Lady Willa, the Rat Doe, renewed the same petition at least once a week. She took offense to being merely Head of the Mischief of Rats, while the Crows and Ravens collectively were the Murder. Peter did wonder if perhaps Edmund, in some perverse way he did not wish to understand, was putting her up to it.
High King as marital advisor. Aslan, I never knew scolding Songbirds into being better parents would be part of Your Most Royal Charge.
Peter gestured for his Palace Guard, the Cheetahs, Fooh and Beehn, to precede him onto the terrace. The Cheetahs silently took their positions at the doorway. As informal as Narnia could be, Peter wanted the pomp of this entrance to underscore to the Birds how very serious the matter was to their High King.
The six Songbirds were arrayed on the balcony overlooking the southern gardens, the two Bluebird Hens and one Cardinal Hen on one side, their respective mates on the other.
Not a promising beginning. This would be an occasion for the Most Royal We and many Frowns.
The High King, appointed by Aslan, Ruler by Gift, Prescription, and Conquest, King over all who came before and shall come after, looking down from His full, Magnificent height, stood solemnly before His Most Squabbling Little Subjects.
The Songbirds all trilled their nervous greetings.
Peter began at his most stern. "We warn you now, Birds, this is a matter most grave to Us. We most earnestly entreat you to resolve your differences expediently, for you Birds will not wish for Our intervention."
The Songbirds all shifted nervously. Well they should. They knew their Monarchs looked very ill on parents who refused care to their young. Being haled before the High King for a reprimand and reminder of one's parental duty was not something any Good Beast wished.
"We would hear the petition of the Hens first. Thereafter, the Cocks may speak."
One of the Bluebird Hens stepped forward. "High King, sir. We three Hens all have at least three fledglings in the nest."
"Aslan is with you," Peter intoned with great gravity. "You are indeed most blessed among Birds."
The Birds all chirped their subdued thank you's. To Peter's experience eye in these matters, he thought they were starting to feel ashamed of themselves already.
"We can't feed our chicks all by ourselves, High King," the Bluebird Hen chirped, with agitation. "There are too many in the nest, and one or more may die."
"Nor should you feed your young by yourselves, Hens. That is why you each share a nest with a Cock." Peter turned to the fidgeting males. "We will hear from you now, Cocks."
It was the brilliant red Cardinal male who spoke on their behalf. "See, it's like this, High King. None of us thinks that all the fledglings in the nest are all his own. We is each feeding nestlings that aren't ours."
And there is foul language in the Otter Romp, gambling in the Crow Murder, and bullying in the Hummingbird Charm. Peter managed not to sigh outwardly. Berating the Cock for his obtuse naiveté would not get food into these nestlings' mouths.
"Hens," Peter asked them. "During this Season, did you mate with Cocks other than those here with whom you built the nest?"
They would not lie to their High King. Peter was sure of that.
Two of the Hens murmured, "Yes, High King." The third, the other Bluebird, was less apologetic. Impertinently she chirped, "Of course we mated with other Cocks, High King. That's what Songbirds do."
And a bit more restraint might prevent this from turning into a wholly preventable tragedy. Sorting out how much was nature and how much was simple whim was quite beyond the skill of even the High King.
Peter silenced the muttering among the Cocks with a Frown. "Cocks, We now ask you this, what were you doing while your Hens were with other males?"
Oh yes, the shifty, beady little eyes. Peter heard one of the females give a little "Tut" and he silenced her with a Frown as well. "One of you will answer Us," he demanded, softly, but most insistently. They would not, dare not, refuse him.
"With chirp… twitter other…"
"Speak clearly Bluebird Cock so that We might hear you."
"We were looking for other females."
Peter let that admission settle on them all. When each Songbird began looking to the mate, he said, "Know this, Cocks. It is likely that some of your young are in other nests, and were those other females to come before Us, complaining of their Cocks withholding aid, Our answer would be the same to all. Whoever is in it, it is now your nest. Cock and Hen built it together, and in so doing undertook a vow before Aslan himself to care for what hatched there. The fledglings came wholly innocent into the World with no fault other than to be born. To not feed the young in that nest, whosoever it is, is most wrong in Our eyes and is most assuredly a grievous injury to the Blessing Aslan has bestowed."
I'll have to remember that one for next time. Because, next Season, I will be doing this all over again.
"Tell Us that you understand what We have said."
The birds all fidgeted and fluffed, but bobbed their heads.
"So, now We come to Our decision. We give each of you pairs a choice. First, and what We most heartily entreat of you, return to your nests, together, and care for the fledglings there. If you do not, We will know of it." Mental note to remember to tell Edmund, no, better, Susan, about that.
"Second, if you are unwilling to cooperate, We will remove your fledglings and give them to other Birds who will care for them."
This was, Peter well knew, a very serious besmirching of a Bird's reputation. Other Birds would learn of this shame, and would be reluctant to take any of these six as mates next season, deeming them too unreliable.
"Last, We may put you in a cage for the duration of next season, and separated from your Kind, you will not be permitted to bring into this World fledglings for which you will not provide."
That last one was so harsh, he doubted they would have the withal to implement it. The Songbirds did not know that, though. Gossips that they were, word of this risk would become known. Come to think of it, Edmund could spread a rumor through the Murder, thereby reinforcing it. Maybe he would not have to do this next Season and maybe fledglings would not starve while their parents bickered.
"So, Birds, We await your decision. Discuss it with your partner, and tell Us what you would do."
Peter withdrew a few steps, but there was never any doubt. Each pair in turn came before him and seriously announced that they were committed to caring for the fledglings in their nest. The Birds flew off, and Peter sincerely hoped he would not be seeing them again over this.
"So, my good Cheetah Guard, what do you make of that? Did I make a sound decision?"
"Oh yes, King Peter," Fooh said, in between licks of his paw. "You sounded ever so stern. I was ready to go find the nestlings and feed them myself."
"And you Beehn? What say you?"
"That I'm always going to be a bachelor, High King."
"I understand, Friend. I do understand."
"So, as you demolish every cherished misconception we have of animal perception and behavior, will you tell me that even the beaver and the wolf do not form the stable bonds as I have so long assumed and admired?"
"Still clinging to observer bias, Richard?"
"A fool's last romantic hope, I suppose."
"We are ready to leave, King Peter."
Briony had found the High King in his office. When he had seen her, the King had immediately dismissed his Cheetah Guard to the hall and closed the door. Fooh and Beehn would of course be able to hear everything regardless, a fact that humans constantly seemed to forget. In his defence, the High King did have a great deal weighing upon him. Briony would rely upon her bonded Mate, the Wolf Lambert, to threaten the Cheetahs into maintaining their silence. Word of this drama most assuredly should not circulate, for the harm and embarrassment to the humans involved would be most acute.
"Do you have everything you need Briony? Is there anything I can do?"
In this, he was speaking not as the King, but as the very confused and concerned brother and she responded in kind.
"Queen Lucy and I will be fine. She intends to ride very fast, and Trice, the Eagle, accompanies us. King Edmund has checked our way eight times in the last two days and there is nothing on the trail except Deer and other woodland Beasts. If there is any trouble, Trice will summon help."
"I'm still uneasy permitting this with so little Guard, Briony."
She wished King Peter would stop pacing his office. He could make her dizzy. Everyone was on edge, beginning with the Monarchs, and that overlay of stress had infected everyone else, from the Centaurs and Fauns, to the Moles in the gardens and Mice in the fields. King Peter and King Edmund especially were shedding worry and aggravation as a house Cat shed hair.
"Be glad Queen Lucy does not hear you speak of what you will and won't permit her to do, High King. Especially at this moment." Her correction brought him up short.
"You are correct, of course, Friend. Please do not tell Lucy I spoke so. I cannot help but be anxious for her though."
"Aslan rides with our Valiant Queen. He knows what she needs now, and it is not a retinue. If you must, and I suspect King Edmund is already doing so, send some discreet Guard overhead or a few hours behind. Queen Lucy will not notice, so long as they stay out of sight, and I will not mention it."
The High King slumped into his chair and pulled his hands through matted hair. It was an utterly unguarded moment, and very rare for King Peter. In this candid moment of vulnerability, he finally admitted, "I just don't understand."
"May I speak plainly, Sire?"
"Please, Briony. Anything to help Lucy. And me to help her."
"You cannot understand, so I advise you and King Edmund to stop trying to do so. Be supportive, as you have, but neither of you can comprehend what is in your sister's heart at this time. Queen Lucy does not wish to confide in Queen Susan for the same reasons."
Briony and Lambert continued to wonder if Lucy had been so reluctant to discuss these things openly with her sister for fear of opening old wounds. Regardless, and close though they were, it was not a sister that Lucy needed right now.
"But it's been going so well!" the High King exclaimed with frustration; she smelled even a hint of anger. Briony had to will her hair to stay down on her back. Calm. She needed to remain calm when her Monarchs could not.
His disappointment mounted as he vented his frustration. "We're all happy for her! She seemed happy, in love, even. Aidan is the very sort of man I had always hoped for Lucy. We all wanted to welcome him to our family. So, why the change? Did he do something to hurt her, because if…"
"Of course not," she corrected quickly. "Put the thought out of your mind, High King." She paused, and added with a firm growl, "and kindly put it out of King Edmund's as well."
The look on King Peter's face showed that was precisely the thought they had both been harbouring.
"If anything," Briony said, "I regret to say, but Aidan is the injured party here."
The helpless anger was now more easily sensed, even if outwardly, nothing of the High King had changed. "Why is she acting like this, Briony? What are we supposed to do?"
These were, she knew, the same questions that had been repeated over and over (and over and over) between the Kings and Queen Susan in the last week. They did not understand. Briony and Lambert had seen that easily enough. For all their wisdom and leadership, wit and strength, love and loyalty, neither High King Peter nor the Queen Susan had ever bonded to another Mate. Queen Susan was practical and protective and the High King, loved his whole Land so widely and well, saving that extra to give to one single woman was probably not even possible. Though King Edmund and Banker Morgan were devoted to one another, it was a very odd relationship between two peculiar Humans. Of course it was Queen Lucy, who loved so freely and joyously, who would fall so hard, and who now felt such confusion and uncertainty.
"There is nothing you can do, except to let her go. What she needs, she cannot find here."
"What does she need, Briony? Can you tell me that, without violating your Guard's loyalty to Lucy?"
She went to her King, and nudged his knotting, wringing hands with her nose. To her it had been so obvious, but the High King, for all his many wonderful qualities, was not a Beast and did not have their sensitivity. "Your sister needs a mother and a wife's advice, now. We go to find the closest she has to that in Narnia."
The Beavers' Lodge was not one of Briony's favorite places. It smelled strongly of musky rodent, willow bark and fish. It was dark, and a bit damp, and reminded one of a ship's cabin, although those aboard the Splendour Hyaline were much nicer. Trice enjoyed it, but then she was an Eagle, and liked fish and perching on the backs of arm chairs where her talons would snag in the fabric.
They were into their second pot of tea before Lucy (she was insisting everyone drop her title) could even mention Aidan's name.
Mrs. Beaver reached across the table and took Lucy's hand in her own paw. "Now, dearie. Tell us what worries you so."
The tears started flowing again, as they had ever since Aidan and Lucy had announced their betrothal and Lucy's immediate and Narnian families had all given their enthusiastic blessings.
"I don't know. I should be happy, but I'm worried, and I don't know what I should be feeling, but I'm sure it isn't this misery. It's just all wrong!" Lucy pulled her hands away and buried her face in them, her shoulders shaking for the crying. Briony, as she had all week, sidled up to Lucy to nuzzle her, lending her distraught friend such warmth and support as she could give.
Mrs. Beaver smartly rapped the table. "Lucy! Mind me now!"
Lucy pulled her head up and wiped her tears away on her sleeve. "Yes, Mrs. Beaver?" the Queen said, a bit meekly. Only to Mrs. Beaver was Lucy ever so deferential, showing a daughter's respectful, adoring love.
We were right to come.
"Let's start with the basics. None of this 'what you should be feeling' nonsense." Mrs. Beaver was beginning very practically, which Briony approved of heartily. "You feel what you feel, and worrying about what you should or shouldn't be feeling is just going to make it worse."
"But, I'm not even sure what I am feeling! I'm deliriously happy one moment, and can't stop crying the next, and everyone is getting so cross at me."
Mrs. Beaver made another disapproving sound. "Forget about everyone else too. If they get cross because you are feeling unsure about the most important decision you've ever made in your young life, well, that's their concern, not yours."
"And another thing," Mrs. Beaver wagged her paw at Lucy. "You've not said it, but I want you to stop thinking about how you have to do this because everyone loves Adian so much. The High King is not marrying Aidan; the Army is not marrying Aidan; you may be. We'll just assume Aidan is a good and worthy man for now, and that you are deserving of each other, alright?"
"Let me see a nod now, there's a dear." Mrs. Beaver dabbed the tears from Lucy's face with a rough looking checked handkerchief.
"Last, I don't want to hear anything about how if you don't marry him, you'll ruin his life. That's as sure a path to life of misery as any. Mark my words, Lucy Pevensie, you and him aren't some flirty songbirds. You two will be a Bonded Pair to the day you enter Aslan's own country, and if it's not right for you, it's not going to be right for him, either."
Mrs. Beaver pushed a plate of biscuits toward Lucy and waited, tapping the plate until Lucy picked one up and began to nibble on it. From the scent, Briony suspected the biscuits were mostly bark.
"Little calmer now, are we?"
Lucy nodded.
"That's a start. Now, let's hear what's going on in your head and heart," Mrs. Beaver said pouring another cup.
"That's the problem, I don't know!" Lucy threw her hands up and the biscuit went sailing through the air. Briony wondered if it had been deliberate. "Aidan is wonderful. I think I love him. And if I don't, I certainly like him better than any man I've ever met." Lucy put her hand over her mouth. "How can I even say such horrible things. I…"
Tears were welling up again, and Mrs. Beaver tutted. "Lucy! Stop worrying over what you should be doing. You've just said a very sensible thing. You like Aidan better than any man you've ever met. Let's hold that thought and forget about the rest for now."
"But liking isn't love!" Lucy wailed.
"Of course it is. It's not all love is, but liking is part of it. Love is … Briony, dear, I need another bonded female here, what's the word I'm looking for?"
"Love is complicated, Lucy. It's many different things. Liking your male better than any other is an excellent place to start."
Briony felt Lucy's hand on her neck; Her Queen liked this tactile contact with her Guard. While it was a bit "familiar," Briony did not object either. She leaned into the hand and rubbed her head against it.
"That's it, thank you Briony." Mrs. Beaver pushed the plate of bark biscuits again, but Lucy refrained. Rather too much fiber, Briony thought. "So, you like Aidan better than any other, and you think you might want to marry him. So, what are you worried about?"
"Do I want to be married to one man? Forever? What if I get mad at him? What if he doesn't pick up his socks? What if I meet someone I love more? What if he does?"
"Well that last one is easy enough," Trice said from her perch. Do what I'd do if some tart comes waving her tail feathers at Raffe. You're good with a knife, so just cut her liver out and feed it to the fish."
"Yes, thank you, Trice for that observation," Briony muttered. Honestly, Eagle females could be ruthless; they certainly vigorously defended their mates.
"But what if Raffe strayed?" Lucy asked in a whisper.
Briony heard how fearful she was of this, even thinking it, even asking it. Court intrigues were a fact, and very tiresome they had become. Lucy had for the most part always held herself aloof from those games. She would give herself utterly and devotedly to Aidan. The prospect that he might not do the same would devastate her.
"There's no reason why Raffe would stray," Trice said dismissively. "He has me."
Lucy rolled her eyes at the Eagle and laughed, a little, but without real mirth. "Would that I had your confidence, Trice."
"It's a nightmare Lucy," Mrs. Beaver said. "You're right to fear it. But, that's where the trust comes in. And talking through your fears together. And, I won't lie to you, being a bit like Trice there isn't a bad thing if something threatens what you have."
Briony could hear and smell the rising anger in Mrs. Beaver. She and Lucy both knew its source.
"That little young thing, setting up her Lodge so close to ours, combing her fur in front of him like that. I knew she was looking for someone who'd build her a nice dam."
"Oh, but surely not Mr. Beaver." Lucy was appalled; yet, Briony could sense she also really wanted to know of this horror.
"No, I'm certain of that. I told him she was up to no good, and I think a part of him was sort of flattered that the little bit was interested in him, and that I wasn't going to stand for it. Males are like that, you know. All this fuss of males doing all the courting, but I tell you nothing flatters him more than her that wants him."
That observation was, Briony thought as she considered her own over ten year bond with Lambert, probably very near a universal invariant that cut across species.
"'Sides," Mrs. Beaver continued, "he knew that if he did stray, I would know, and then he'd be lying in a pool of his own blood, and me with the axe, saying 'Hold still, I'm going to hit you again.'"
Lucy burst out laughing, the first in a week, and reached across the table to hug Mrs. Beaver. Was that the trick of it, Briony wondered? To take the unthinkable, and turn it into the manageable by making it laughable?
"Point is, Lucy, part of it is trust, part of it is talking through it, and part of it is being smart, and knowing when you go to your Queen and ask her to move the little tart to Telmar."
"The mating's great too," Trice interrupted suddenly. "Really, you have nothing to worry about there at all. Those diving cartwheels and death spirals, where we lock talons and plunge down to the ground from the Aerie. Just fantastic. Really. You'll love it. Goes on for weeks."
"Trice," Briony said, none too patiently. The Eagle could be so dense sometimes. "If Aidan and Lucy plunge from a cliff in a mating embrace, they will die."
Lucy did giggle. "Dear Trice, I appreciate your perspective, truly. It is the love that concerns me at the moment."
"Well, I know it's not all about the mating. The Eagle clicked her beak. "It's a lot of hard work and liking him isn't enough to get you through it. I'd be asking if Adian will help you build the nest and look for nice grass to line it. Will he help you feed the fledglings? Most important, will he help you incubate the eggs? Because that's a bloody chore it is, and if he won't help..."
"Trice," Briony interrupted, "Lucy is a mammal. She must incubate eggs by herself. Aidan could not help with this. She must also provide the feeding for the fledgling herself."
"Well that's not fair!"
"Trice does have the right of it, though, Lucy," Mrs. Beaver said. "Love is hard work too. It won't always be easy, and the question is, do you think it will help to have him with you? Will he make the bad times less bad, and the good times even better?"
"Like when my first fledgling died," Trice said from her perch, very softly.
Lucy's eyes began welling with tears again and Briony was ready to chase the Bird out of the Lodge.
Again, Mrs. Beaver surprised her. "And Raffe helped you, didn't he, dearie?"
"He did. I wanted to follow my little one into Aslan's Country it hurt so much. But, we still had our other, barely out of the shell, and Raffe couldn't take care of him alone. So, Raffe made me stay in the Aerie and day after day, he kept bringing us both food. He would bother me and bother me to make me eat and I hated him for it. But, he kept at it, and we both lived."
"And it was worth it, wasn't it Trice?" Mrs. Beaver asked. "You love him even more for it now, don't you?"
Trice hid her head under wing, muttering something unintelligible that sounded like, "Yes, I'll be fine."
"Dear Trice. I thank you," Lucy said, dabbing her eyes again.
"You won't know for sure until something horrible like that happens, Lucy. Pray to Aslan it never does. Again, you have to ask yourself if you'd rather go through that alone and with your family, or whether you want Aidan with you too."
Lucy nodded, biting her lip. "I guess we can't see the tragedy, so that's harder for me to even imagine. What I can see are the little things that annoy me, like leaving his boots where I trip on them, and that he doesn't drink wine, and that his beard gets very scratchy. How do I know that all those little things won't just pile up into a huge thing and I'll just start screaming at him?"
"Well, you are really asking about two things there, Lucy. Most important, don't go into this thinking you are going to change him. We accept our mates as they come to us, and we to them."
"You might change together, though," Briony felt confident enough to add. "Aslan willing, you change in the same direction."
"And as for fighting, well that happens. You do want to pick your fights; decide what you can live with and ignore, and what really bursts your dam."
"The mating afterwards is pretty fantastic too," Trice said.
"Thank you, Trice, again!" Briony growled. She had to remember the She-Eagle had only been bonded to her male for two seasons.
"I do worry that he will want to change me," Lucy said softly, after a time. "That he won't want me on the road, or riding out with Peter or Edmund when I must."
"Lucy, if I may?" Briony injected. On this subject, she felt fairly confident. "You met Aidan in battle. You shot a soldier off his back. He knows you well and loves Aslan and Narnia as you do. I really do not see that changing."
"And if he tries to keep Queen Lucy the Valiant out of battle, well you both can fight about it, then you ride off anyway, and when you get back, have great mating again. It is too bad you can't try one of those flying death spirals of a cliff, though."
During their ramble along the river path, Peter stopped to greet a Labrador who had been launching herself with great, canine gusto into the water to retrieve a stick. The young woman, Richard thought a student at the University, who was exercising the Labrador seemed rather interested in greeting Peter; Peter was focused on the dog. Richard observed that three-way interaction and non-interaction as the dog thoroughly mouthed on and shook her wet self all over Peter. It was remarkable how Peter could convey total politeness and yet complete indifference to the dog's owner. He had obviously had a lot of practice at it.
It was just another of those odd things that did not fit. Figuring out who Peter was, for Richard, was a pointless exercise. It was a question that had occupied Asim, and so, by extension, Mary. He'd leave them to it. It was hard, to leave puzzles unfinished, questions unanswered. The scientist demanded proof through hypothesizing, testing and replication. So, where did that leave faith in the equation? Richard had never been especially bothered by the co-existence of faith and science. Both were concerned with truth, it was only a question of how you arrived there.
So, as Peter took his own extraordinary knowledge on faith, Richard had decided to take Peter on faith. He was nearing the end of even being able to approach the whole of it as a scientific theorem to be tested. All that was left to him, at this end of all things, was faith. To that he would hold.
After Peter threw the stick a few times himself for the Labrador to chase, they continued on.
"Have you had dogs in your life, Richard?"
"Oh yes. With the exception of women, there is nothing so agreeable or necessary to the comfort of man as a dog."
"That sounds like both a quote and a truism to live by."
"Concededly I opened that door, but I am now going to firmly shut it. Seeing how you handily managed that sweet young thing back there put me in the mind of it. I do not, under any circumstance, wish to hear from you on the subject of the agreeable and necessary company of women. Trying to reconcile your age with what I am certain you would say is just the sort of thing that would make my head hurt and which I most strenuously am trying to avoid. In comparison to other species of Kingdom Animalia of which you are so knowledgeable, being the old polygamist that I am, there is nothing that I could hear from you on the subject of female homo sapien that I have not already either experienced, or rejected for a very good reason."
Peter's knowing, wolfish grin answered that question. Richard spared a very sympathetic pang for Digory; a brilliant, lovely man, but still quite Victorian in outlook.
"Now, dogs are another matter. Peter, don't you find it odd that you can prove the existence of God from a dog's nose, but not through the demonstration of the proof of the Reverend John Duns Scotus?"
"I have a letter from Ed," Susan said stirring her tea with one hand and skimming her morning correspondence with the other.
"Is it longer than a line?" Lucy asked.
"The part in cipher is. The part not in cipher reads, 'Lone Islands are here. Wish you were beautiful. Love, Harold.'"
"Harold?" Pitching her voice a little louder, so that it would carry from the breakfast room, Lucy called, "Jalur?"
Peter craned his neck over Lucy to see what Susan held. It looked to be three to four pages of closely written cipher. He was glad he was not the one translating it. "How long before you can read it, Susan?"
"A few hours, depending on what else you give me to do, and in how much of a rush Edmund was when he wrote."
Jalur, the Tiger, Edmund's personal Palace Guard, came around the corner. "Good morning, Your Majesties. You called me, Queen Lucy?"
"Yes, I have a question. We received a letter from Edmund. He signed it, 'Harold.' Is there some special meaning to that?"
"Yes, Queen Lucy," the Tiger said.
Peter had to stifle a laugh. Jalur elevated the concept of "solitary species" to a not previously observed level of taciturn. How he managed in the relatively social position as a Palace Guard, much less as personal Guard to Edmund, was a great marvel. The irascible Tiger had been at loose ends, waiting for His King's return.
Lucy was not to be dissuaded. "And what is that special meaning?"
"I cannot say, Queen Lucy."
"Cannot, Jalur? Or, will not?"
Jalur swiveled his head toward the Main Hall; Peter saw the other Beasts of the Guard all attend as well.
"An Eagle comes," Lambert, Susan's Wolf Guard, said.
A moment later, they could all hear the hurried clip of a Faun. Mr. Hoberry trotted in, Raffe, the Male Eagle on his arm.
Finally. Peter pushed away from his seat and closed the distance in three strides. "Raffe! What news from Ibiza?"
He took the Eagle from Mr. Hoberry; Raffe was breathing hard from his flight. Peter carried the Eagle to the table, giving him a perch on a chair back. Lucy was already pouring water into a bowl.
The Eagle drank gratefully.
"Thank you, Your Majesties. King Peter, Ibiza found the Hag's trail, a few hours hard ride from here. Northwest. He thinks she's headed toward Ettinsmoor."
And we'll never get her if she makes it that far.
"Are you strong enough, Raffe? Can you lead us there?"
"Yes, and Yes, King Peter. Ibiza says as few as possible; he does not want the scent confused. And,"
"I know, 'no dogs.' Lucy, Susan, decide which of you rides with me. We leave in the hour."
The woods south of the Stone Table had been filled with the rumour of something that stalked the Beasts there. It crept into nests, snatched young from dens, drank blood. Not many of the Witch's foul brood remained, but this had all the hallmarks of one. Eventually, the Hag had been spotted as she moved north, getting uncomfortably close to Cair Paravel, before turning west and disappearing again into the wood. It made sense she would haunt the area about the Stone Table and Beruna, sites of her Mistress' greatest, short-lived, triumph and her death. If the Hag was sniffing about for something, it might be found there.
Ibiza, the Hound, had been on her trail for days, crisscrossing between the rivers.
With all the Powers of His Office, all the efficiencies of their staff, and still, to Peter's aggravation it was something slightly more than an hour before he and Susan were pounding there way northwest, following Raffe. They were traveling light, he and Susan on fast horses, with only Lambert, Jalur, and the Centauress Eirene, a swordsmaster and minor mage. Overcoming the Hag would not be the problem; he was far more concerned they would lose her again in the Wild. If they flushed her into the open, Peter wanted a bowman, and in Susan, there was none better in all Narnia. Close in fighting, he would handle that well enough, with Wolf and Tiger to get whatever was left, and Eirene as second.
They caught up with Ibiza where the southern edge of the Owlwood met the River.
"Took you long enough," the laconic Hound said, by way of greeting. Ibiza spared a surly glance at Lambert. "I said no dogs."
Lambert was too well-schooled to do more than mimic Susan's eyebrow raise and dry humor. "Then it is a good thing no dog came."
Peter slid off his horse. Herc, his stallion was a bit blown; Susan's light mare as well. He tossed his reins to Susan. "Get everyone watered, if you would, Su. I'll see to the trail."
"Tell me the tale, Ibiza. What of our quarry?" Eirene fell in next to him as Peter joined the Hound at the Wood's edge. The Centauress would water after Jalur or Lambert returned.
"Hag. But we knew that. She's old, even very old from the smell, more clever than fast." With a jerk of his head, Ibiza indicated the River. "I've been following her zig-zagging across the river all day, since the Rush."
The Hound said he was able to see scents lingering on the top of the water; whatever the mechanism, Peter had learned not to question it. Water never fooled Ibiza.
"She finally came out here." Ibiza showed them the fording. It was clear enough, there in the mud; Peter could see the skinny three-toed footprints and nail claws sunk deep in the muck.
Eirene stared at the prints, then back across the river behind them. "But she forded back to the other side."
"No, she didn't. You go across the river here and you'll see her prints plain on the other side, heading south. There's a funny scent with them, but it's not her scent. She went into the wood."
Eirene studied the prints, looking thoughtful. "What's the scent like going back across the River, Ibiza?"
If the Hound could have shrugged, he would have. "Blood, more rabbit than Hag."
Peter put a hand over his eyes and squinted across the river. "The track is very clear on the other side, but Ibiza, you say her scent goes into the wood?"
"No buts," Ibiza growled. "Scent don't lie."
The Centauress was studying the track. "Eirene, speak your thought, please," Peter said.
"I've not seen it before, Sire, but I suspect it's Hag blood magic. I think she's summoned something to make tracks for her, and at the end of those tracks we'll find a poor Rabbit, staked to the ground and slowly bleeding to death."
"Can you deal with it?" They were not prepared for an ambush by a full magic user.
"Oh yes. If as Ibiza says, it's a Rabbit…"
"It is."
"What's been summoned will be of a similar ilk. If the Rabbit is already dead, the summoned will have been dispatched regardless."
"What are we walking into in the wood then? Do we need to send Raffe back for more support?"
Eirene shook her head. "Quite the opposite, King Peter. Any summoning takes a fair amount of power, and Ibiza has been chasing this old Hag for hours. She'll need at least a day to recover and feed."
"So desperate and dangerous, but not spell casting?" That, they could manage.
"Yes."
"Ibiza, how long ago do you think she went in?"
"Not long. It's fresh. Couple of hours."
"It will be dark soon," Susan added, coming up with the horses, Jalur and Lambert with her. Raffe was riding on the pommel of Peter's saddle. "What news?"
"She's gone into the wood," Peter told her, "for all that she's used some Hag magic to try to fool us. Eirene and Ibiza think she probably sacrificed a Rabbit to make footprints going back south."
Time was wasting and they were losing light, not that that would matter much in the wood. She'd killed too many and they needed to finish this business.
"Jalur, Lambert, am I right this wood is too dense for the horses?"
"Yes," Lambert responded. If Jalur disagreed, he would say so. Truly, the Tiger and the Hound could together pass a week with nary a word between them.
"Susan, your opinion? You could go with Eirene, take the horses and follow the prints; you'll have little light for shooting in the wood."
The Queen looked back across the river, then to the wood. After a moment, she responded decisively, "Eirene, alone, if you both so will. If we tree the Hag, you'll need me to shoot her down. I trust Aslan, my bow and my aim, even in the dark."
"Eirene, then," Peter ordered, "please take the horses, and follow that track, Raffe with you. If there's death at the end of the trail, please see that our poor Cousin is sent into Aslan's Paws. Deal with the remains as befitting as may be done. Return here and wait for us until morning. If we aren't back by dawn, Raffe please return to Cair Paravel for a larger troop; tell Pliny and Queen Lucy we have spell casting Hag and they'll know what to do."
It would soon be dark but there was nothing for it. Wolf and Tiger would see well enough, and Hound would not need eyes when his nose told him where to go.
"Ibiza take the point, we follow. Jalur, Lambert flanking, Su, behind if you would, arrow at the ready."
"I'll try not to shoot you, Peter," she said, with a ghost of a grin.
It was an old joke between them.
"I did remember my mail shirt, Sister. Just don't aim for my head, invitingly large target though it is."
Peter drew his long dagger; in a dark, dense wood, this would be knife work.
They had been going some hours, moving as swiftly and unerringly as the relentless Hound they followed. Occasionally the moon would peek through the trees. It was unnaturally quiet. No owls, no mice or fox, or other of the small animals they should have seen. The Trees were silent.
The ruff around Lambert's neck and the hair on his back rose. "She is here," the Wolf murmured.
"Of course she is, you stupid dog," Ibiza muttered nose to the ground. "She knows we're here too. I can smell the fear in her." To Peter, the Hound said, "She's hungry and tired." The Hound continued again to the trail.
On one side, Jalur stalked along, his Cat yellow eyes gleaming in the dark; Lambert's eyes glowed green.
"Phew. Ibiza, what's happened?" Peter asked, as them across a fouling on the path.
"Just her old tricks. Probably the last she's got. She rolled in bear scat; she hopes will follow the bear instead of her."
"Talking or Dumb?" Susan asked.
"Dumb bear. Been eating a lot of berries and grubs this season. He won't bother us."
"So, it's not fouled the trail?" Jalur asked.
"No," Peter said, answering for the Hound, who would get impatient at these questions. "To Ibiza, she's still a Hag who smells a little like a bear."
They pressed on, deeper into the wood. The hunter's instinct told him she was close. They all felt it, Ibiza's slower pace, Susan's cautious tread behind, and in the way Jalur and Lambert both moved in their predator crouch, head low, eyes straight forward, hindquarters tensed for the spring.
A few paces ahead, almost out of range of his poor sight, Peter saw Ibiza stop. The Hound raised his head from the trail, the first since they had entered the wood. Ibiza's nose pointed.
Up.
The whiff of foulness and the hint of a movement in the leaves was all the warning they had, but also all they needed.
A roar, a howl, and "Ware the tree!" as Peter spun about sweeping his knife upward in a two-handed pull.
A blackness darker than the night around them clouded his vision, but as the cloaked Hag dropped down from the branch above, Peter's cut was true and he felt the jarring as his clean metal met her flesh.
She shrieked. Grappling with her, Peter saw a grotesque, ghoulish head hidden in the folds of her hood. He gave her a shove, giving the others the space to work. The Hag shuddered as Susan's arrow hit home. With a powerful leap, Jalur swatted her down, his massive claws shredding her gown and tearing through flesh as she fell. Lambert darted in and bit down on the claw clutching a wickedly curved knife. Another arrow in, and the Hag was dead.
Ibiza bounded forward, near into Peter's arms, planting both front paws on his chest. "Thank you, Ibiza. I'm fine, I…"
The Hound growled, irritated that Pete might have assumed the display was affectionate. "There was poison on that blade of hers. " He sniffed again, then dropped to all fours, circling around him, still sniffing. "There's no blood on you but hers."
Peter glanced over at the severed claw, still twitching in its death throes on the forest floor, the sickle knife glinting in the moonlight.
"I suppose I'll live then."
They had been walking through one of the popular picnicking areas by the River. A young woman was shrieking near as loud as the triumphant crow who had made off with a piece of chicken in his claw.
"My brother, Edmund, is the one who taught me to appreciate crows. They were his personal totem, you could say, along with rats."
"Interesting fellow, your brother. Does he always keep such low company?"
"Don't ever let him hear you say that. He'll go on at length about the ingenuity of the common crow. The ones we dealt with were…" Peter wondered if he should just say, "Talking Beasts," but Richard just grimaced and waved him on.
"No hows. I don't care. Just tell me what you observed."
"Well, you know how attracted they are to shiny things? Some of it comes from how differently they perceive colour and light. Something that is pretty to us is just brilliant to them. When we look at a crow, we just see a blackish blue bird. They see something completely different. They see, black-black, black-green, black-blue, blue-black, green-black, shiny black, dull black, brilliant black and so on. We don't even have words for all the colours and light they see."
"But if, as you say, so many perching birds perceive colour and light differently, why are crows so exceptional?"
Peter watched the crow hop his way into the higher branches of a tree. He'd be squawking more exuberantly, but he had a chicken wing in his beak.
"I have to say some of it is just their nature. They have decided tastes, love shiny things and are bold enough to take the chance to get them. I've seen them steal silverware off of tables, ornaments off women's hair, and jewelry from dressers. They are very social, clever and just love any dust up."
"Sallowpad!" Edmund shouted, "Chief!"
Edmund stalked around the Roost that also served as the Headquarters for the Murder. He rounded the corner of the outbuilding, following the noise and was brought up short by a veritable riot of Crows across the yard.
The ruckus had been so loud, it was rattling Cook's nerves and she had demanded an investigation. As upset Cook could very easily lead to upset stomachs and indigestion, Susan had thought it best if Edmund dealt with the matter himself. He had thought the Crows might have been racing beetles again, but Cook hadn't said they'd been hanging about the midden looking for bugs, so Edmund doubted that was what the fracas was about.
"Your Majesty!"
Looking up, Edmund saw Sallowpad perched on a shingle. "How may the Murder serve?"
He gave the Raven Cock the two-fingered salute. "Good afternoon, Chief. Could you please tell me what our Friends are doing over there," he said pointing. It looked to be two score Crows, all shrieking and flapping about several dead tree trunks lying on the ground. Except…
"Chief! Am I correct? Are there common Dumb crows over there?"
Sallowpad squawked with irritation and snapped his beak. "Not Dumb, Your Majesty, if you please. They don't speak as you and I do, but our Cousins are not dumb."
This was very odd. Typically, Talking Beasts looked on their non-talking counterparts with a fair bit of condescension.
"Forgive me then. Not dumb, but very loud. What are they doing?"
Holding out his arm for the Raven, Sallowpad launched himself down. "Come. See, My King, how clever the common crow is."
In all, it was a race, of sorts. The Talking Crows were, of course, gambling, wagering away bits of silvery, glittery things, the Shinys and Pretties they hoarded and traded. Edmund made a point of not looking too closely at the bets being laid down. Some of their best silverware was probably there, as well as ornaments stolen from former guests at Cair Paravel. He also saw a number of King Edmund's Shinys, the trinkets he awarded to Crows who served him in the intelligence services.
In a separate pile were pieces of wire and sticks. The Dumb (correction, non-speaking) crows were sifting through this pile, picking things up and then hopping over to the dead tree trunks.
"Chief, what are they doing?" The wild crows were holding the wires and sticks in their beaks and pushing them into holes in the dead trunks.
"Watch!" the Raven cackled excitedly. "That one, with the big splotch of purple on her wing, she knows what she's about. I've got two Shinys on her."
Edmund, of course, could not see the purple splotch on the wild crow's wing. Susan boasted that she could differentiate the crows; Edmund thought she was just having one on him. To human eyes, they all looked virtually identical.
The crow hen had a piece of wire in her beak and she deftly jammed it into a small hole in the dead wood. Edmund could see her concentration, as she carefully manipulated the wire. There was a sudden, quick stab, and the crow withdrew her wire, now with a fat white grub impaled on the end of it. The hen transferred the wire to one claw, neatly plucked the bug off the end as if it were a cooking skewer from a campfire, and gulped her reward down.
"She's a clever one, she is!" Sallowpad chortled happily. "She hides that wire somewhere and whenever we do this, she goes and gets it and uses it."
"Chief!" Edmund whispered, "I've got a tin Shiny in my pocket. Would you bet it for me? In the next heat, I'd like to put it down on the hen with the purple splotch."
"Tools!" Richard was so shocked he was near speechless. He sat down heavily on the bench and began writing frantically in that strange code. "You are saying that you have observed ordinary crows use tools? Peter, that is… remarkable."
"Well, I've seen Beavers use fishing tackle and sewing machines, so it didn't seem that unusual at the time."
Peter supported Richard up the stairs of the Bodleian Library. He must be fatigued. Peter felt he had been wrung dry.
"Don't bother, Peter. I don't feel like climbing any more stairs. Asim and Mary will come out soon enough looking for us. Let's just sit here and enjoy the moment, without them and all their questions."
Peter could not help but wonder if that paranoia Richard had spoken of was already beginning to erode his mind. Or, maybe he was bone tired of the nursemaids when he knew there was simply no point to it.
Richard slowly lowered himself to the step, gripping the railing and Peter's arm. He settled with huff. "I won't be doing that much longer, I think."
Above them, the late sun was slowly sinking beneath the trees. Evening seemed a little cooler even than a week ago; it was getting darker earlier. The summer would end, and for Peter, the long march forward would begin. More War, more rations, more school, more Latin and logic, more history and theology. Again, he wished that it had been Edmund here in Oxfordshire, in Peter's place.
"I've been thinking about those crows, again."
Peter joined Richard, sitting a step lower. "What about them? The tools?"
"There's a nice patch of lawn right outside my bedroom window. We do get crows there. I'll ask Mr. Patel to set up a platform for them, with some wire, twigs, and food at the bottom of a jug. I'll be able to watch them try to work it out. I'd like to confirm your observations."
Peter felt his chest tighten again, as it had too many times to count that day. Richard was, had been, a window, both to looking back to what Peter had loved, and to what was, to hear Richard tell it, here as well, in every unique person and creature. Richard was as surely a product of Here, as a Centaur was a product of Narnia. He belonged wholly to Spare Oom, had never been to Narnia, and yet worshiped the diversity of all Aslan's creation as truly as any Narnian.
Aslan loved Richard. Peter was sure of it. How could the Lion not love someone who took such delight in everything He had made?
I told him what he wanted to know, Aslan. With this work of mine today, I hope You are pleased and that I have done as You so willed.
Richard believed that the people of this gray, narrow, colourless place called England could learn to love the industrious Beaver and Richard loved them for it, just as he loved the Beaver himself, and every other thing, humble or exalted. If you but have eyes to see and a heart to feel, Lucy had said. Peter had not thought he could find here that same love he had felt in Narnia, but the first time, since his Return, wondered if maybe he should try a little harder to do so.
I'm trying to do Your Will, Aslan. I really am. I just don't know what it is.
"What? I'm sorry, Richard, I was a bit lost in my own thoughts there."
Richard was handing him the field book. "Here, Peter. Take it. They're your observations."
"No, Richard. They are yours. It's all yours." Peter closed his friend's hands back over the book and gently pushed them away. "Hold on to it, for as long as you can."
The old man nodded. "Very well. But when the time comes, Peter, I want you to keep it. I want to know that someone else will remember these things, even when I cannot."
Chapter 12: Crossroads, to follow
In which we learn what Polly, Peter, Mary and Asim think about all this.
Long notes below, mostly references.
Some of these excerpts of this very long chapter, including Briony, Lambert, Fooh, Beehn, the foul mouthed Otters, the promiscuous Songbirds, the Rats of the Mischief, His Majesty The King Edmund's Royal Murder, and that mysterious business in the Lone Islands, are mentioned in the companion piece, By Royal Decree.
Please review if you can. I deeply appreciate your interesting insights, and I do write back.
A few more fun facts for those of you armchair naturalists:
***The tool making skills of crows was documented in a 2002 article in the Journal Nature.
***Wolves, beavers, and eagles (along with many other raptor species) do mate for life and the courtship displays of eagles are indeed astounding.
***Recent data show dogs may be able to smell at least 10 billion times better than a human. A human has 50 million scent receptors per square inch in their nose while a dog has 220 million per square inch. A scent specific trailing Bloodhound has 2 billion olfactory receptors in their nose, the most of any other dog.
As with bird eyesight (particularly that in perching birds or passeriformes, the order to which crows and songbirds belong), the scenting ability of a hound is something that we really do not even have the words to describe. I've come to see it as trying to describe sound to one who is deaf, or color to one who is blind. I've tried here to give a little glimpse into what that remarkable world might be like. Unfortunately, until we meet the bird or dog who can tell us, we will never really know except in our own imperfect way.