The Stone Gryphon, Part 1: Oxfordshire 1942
Chapter 14 - Crossroads - Part 3
In which we learn what Asim thinks of all this.
"Child, all the service thou hast done to Tash, I account as service done to me."
The Last Battle, Aslan to Emeth a Calormene
When every morning brought a noble chance,
And every chance brought out a noble knight.
Alfred Tennyson, "Morte d'Arthur" (paraphrased by Winston Churchill, Speech in the House of Commons, June 4, 1940 regarding the evacuation of Dunkirk)
70,000 words and I really should have said this before - while I own a car, a laptop, and lots of books, and my pets, family, and others own me (or at least my time), I don't own any of this.
The night before that remarkable tea party in Professor Kirke's office, Asim saw a dream. Once the sun had fallen below the horizon and the red thread disappeared from the sky, he went to his room in a rambling great house in Oxfordshire and recited the isha'a, the ṣalāt he had performed each nightfall since he had become a man.
After performing his evening prayers, he ordered his mind for the following day.
Mary had thought Richard would be well enough, and after so long in Africa and their very difficult journey back, they all desired to see Digory, Dr. Copeland, and the much talked of and mysterious Peter Pevensie. Mary was in a challenging mood and asked Kwong Lee to pack as many fung zao and oddly flavored bau and gow as possible in order that she might see of what stuff Mr. Pevensie was made when confronted with an authentic Hong Kong tea. None of it was strange to any of them, but Asim did advise Mary that Professor Kirke did not have much taste for chicken feet and dried squid. Mary was not to be dissuaded, though.
It was ironic that the foods considered part of (what had at one time been) a normal Hong Kong diet were considered wartime austere by the British. Teas and the food that went with them were likely gone now in a Hong Kong under Japanese occupation. The fate of Hong Kong after the Christmas Day fall to Japan was a horror that weighed on them all most especially because there was so little solid intelligence on the situation and because they had heard virtually nothing from their friends and family still there.
Transporting a tea to Digory's office meant logistics, and Asim had reviewed the needs with Lee. The details of hampers, cutlery, tea, and cups, he left in her skilled, but worried, hands. Colourful, unusual, varied, and peculiar, the denizens of Russell Hall surely were. All were also extraordinarily competent in whatever province he or she occupied.
The car had petrol. He had had to barter for an extra ration with a captain at the local defence office, and would have pulled rank, except that the man was willing to do a side deal involving beans and peas from Lin Kun's garden and one of Mary's stocking rations.
The tedious business of telling anyone who might care where he would be was accomplished. The telegraph office in the village knew where he could be found and would send a runner to the University if need be. Should there be some unforeseen, as opposed to foreseen, crisis during the day involving the Arabic-speaking world, they would know where to find him.
One wire went to his babysitter, but by the time the man received it in whatever London bunker he was in, Asim would likely be back at Russell Hall. He sent a wire to Bletchley Park in case the codebreakers needed something in Arabic; they didn't need him for German, French, or Italian. The codebreakers anonymously toiled in an accursed position, overhearing dire threats, and then trying to decode and interpret them, and fast enough, to do someone some good. It was terrible, to read of certain death in clinically concise encrypts and know that you had not acted quickly enough to prevent it. The twin disasters of the Atlantic and North Africa were surely occupying them.
The state of the American defence of its own shipping lanes in the Atlantic disgusted him. Asim didn't know how many ships and tonnes of cargo had been lost to Dönitz's U-boats and Operation Paukenschlag. That whole American "loose lips sinking ships" propaganda campaign wasn't to keep German agents in the dark about shipping details; it was to keep the American public from learning the true state of the debacle because their idiotic admiral wouldn't order simple blackouts or convoys. He was reminded again of the saying in the War Department that the Americans could be counted on to do the right thing, but only after they'd exhausted every other option.
The cables he had read on North Africa were worse still. If the 150th Brigade had been able to hold the Cauldron, they might have had a chance and Rommel would not have been able to secure his fuel sources. But, it had fallen and Asim thought they'd lost some 140 tanks in the last two days in the Knightsbridge pocket. All the orders from Auchinleck and Churchill weren't going to help Ritchie hold the Gazala lines. Asim thought it would be only a matter of days before Tobruk fell – which would give Rommel all the fuel, food, and vehicles he would need to chase the Eighth Army into Egypt. From there, it would be on to Cairo and the Suez, and from there, a straight line to all the oil and supplies the Nazis would need to supply their Russian front. The end wouldn't be far off.
He thought Ritchie was incompetent and Auchinleck was worse still. How could the British, who had been roaming that part of the world for so long, still be so foolish?
They needed the Americans. Were there any American generals who understood desert warfare as Rommel did? There were rumors. There were always rumors. Churchill was with Roosevelt now in America. Stalin was hollering for a Second Front to take some of the pressure off the Russians. Stalin wanted the Second Front in Europe. Churchill wanted it in North Africa. And the Americans? Probably still focused on Japan.
Why had they sent that American group all the way to Ireland only to have them sit there? He'd heard the Americans might actually consider flying sorties and bombing runs over Europe. Shocking that.
In his view, and it wasn't just sentiment, it made far more sense to open the Second Front in North Africa first. Secure the Suez and the Mediterranean, as that would benefit the Russians and the British. Move up into the soft underbelly of Europe after that. For North Africa though, they would need an American amphibious force and it would have to cross the Atlantic, from the East Coast of the Americas. Allah would have to be with it to manage that crossing without all sinking to the bottom of the sea by 50 degrees west.
These were his thoughts as he fell asleep. Then he saw the dream. True dreams are a part of Prophethood, though Asim knew he was no Prophet. Dreams come from within, from Shaytaan, or from Allah. The dream he saw had none of the taint of Shaytaan and he did not know from where within himself it might have come. So, Asim attended.
He saw a green ship with a dragon prow and purple sail, sailing on a sea of lilies. On the foredeck, there was a lamb and with him, a girl. He had seen this girl before in the dreams shown to him and knew her to be important. The brilliant light within her always burned hot, pure, and clear, even though her outward appearance was always changing – younger, older, sad, happy, with a dagger, or with a bow, with a crystal, red-filled bottle, with a wolf or with a beaver, browner, blonder, redder, grubby, Queen enthroned, barefoot and daisy crowned.
Then, it was dawn and time for morning prayer, fajr.
"Do you see dreams, Peter?" Asim would ask later.
The King in a boy's ill-fitting clothing said he did not to speak of, at least not the sort of dreams that one knew to be important. God did not speak to him in this way. Asim described the ship, green with a dragon prow and purple sail, but Peter said he had not seen it. Asim did not describe what else he had seen on the ship.
Asim was not sure what to expect when he entered Digory's office that strange day. A regretful part of him always had hoped that Digory or Polly would see the light within him that he saw so clearly in them. Was this not part of the theology of the Saint of Assisi that Digory studied so carefully – that within each being burned the light of God? Asim knew that Digory had not yet understood that in some beings, the blessing of God's light burned more brightly than it did in others; nor did the eminent scholar comprehend that some, as Asim did, could see so clearly the light that shined within others.
All this light business frustrated Mary to no end, as she reminded him, frequently and wistfully. That tended to happen whenever someone was able to do something she could not.
The light burning in Digory's office that first afternoon was so brilliant, Asim had entered too eagerly and unwary. He had expected to find, as he did, another touched by the loving Hand of God. He had not expected to find what he also did.
It was not an auspicious beginning, but at Oxford, and in England, among all the pale and doughty British, who would have even noticed if he carried knives? Who would have cared for the old protocols of disarming when entering another's man's tent or castle? He wore the knives out of habit, but also for effect, flowing robes and flashing steel to frighten and awe, to make the dull think he was something other than what he really was. His uniforms worn in service to King and Crown with the bars and medals and decorations hung neatly in his closet. Lee would press them periodically so they were crisp and ready. The service revolvers went with that uniform, and they were safely locked away, though he did keep a gun hidden in the car. They were at War and a knife would only get one so far when others fought with bullets.
Peter's challenge was so earnest and old-fashioned, a man more stupid than Asim would have laughed. Mary had been furious. Digory was not surprised, Asim comprehended much later when he was able to reflect upon the whole of it. Digory's lack of reaction was itself notable.
Walking into that room, confronted by the boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, Asim saw something that, until that day, he assumed only he possessed in all this creation. He saw a man shining with the favor of God who would, if necessary, kill. Moreover, Peter knew how to kill, and not in the modern, clinical way of putting a bullet through a man's chest at 20 yards, or dropping a bomb from the air. This was a man who, like Asim, knew what it felt like to drive a knife between ribs, to strike a killing blow with one's own hand.
Richard would be confused later, but there was no doubt in Asim's mind. He saw the latent, coiled danger in Peter as plainly as he saw the light. Peter could have disarmed him, would have done so, and with little effort, if Asim had not saved him the trouble.
So, a killer touched by God, who shined with a light so bright, Asim's own inner eye squinted in the glare of it. God did not grace killers so. Peter, then, was not a killer, but had killed. So, what then was he?
That question would occupy him for some weeks until the range of probable had been eliminated, leaving only the highly improbable.
Their next interaction was the delicate negotiation regarding who should go first out the door of Digory's office.
"After you," Peter had said courteously.
"As a matter of class and race, I should follow you, Peter."
Peter had frowned, as if the thought had never even occurred to him. "Those are not measures of a man."
The boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, in ill-fitting clothes, who had killed, did not even comprehend how completely astonishing this statement was, coming from an Englishman to a dirty Arab of the British Empire. Did Peter not see where he was? Did he really not know that there was no higher testament to the edifices of class, rank, race, and privilege than the Classics department at Oxford?
"Then, it is so you may keep an eye on me," Asim had accused, smiling, but serious still.
The boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, who had killed, and did not think like an Englishman, shook his head. Pitching his voice low so that neither Mary nor Digory could hear, Peter said, "Sir, you have given your word. That is enough."
This peculiar courtesy was the first thing of many things that he discussed with Mr. Patel, Lee, and Kun. They were as shocked as he. They were intrigued by Peter's bold challenge but knew that was really the whole point of how Asim chose to present himself to the English, robes, knives, glower and all. It was intended to deceive and to invite challenge, though until now, in England, the challenges had never come.
After retelling the tale to his rapt audience, Asim detonated the incendiary. "The boy apologized to me."
Lee's cleaver paused; a pea that Kun was shelling dropped into a bowl. The silence was broken by Lee scolding Mr. Patel for allowing his smoldering black cigarette ash to fall to the kitchen floor. Lee brandished her cleaver and Mr. Patel, interpreting the threat correctly, extinguished the butt into his tin cup.
Asim took another sip of his tea.
"Mind you, he did not apologize at all for the challenge. Rather, Peter wished me to understand that he was responding to the threat I posed and not, or at least not for the most part, to my appearance. He admitted my appearance as an Arab may have startled him as it was unexpected, and for that, the fault was his, not mine. He did not wish me to think ill of him for his reaction."
They all digested this to the tune of the clock striking ten.
"He has traveled, then," Mr. Patel said finally, decisively. "There is no other explanation."
"More than travel," Lee said, having to speak more loudly than her normal. She was chopping the spring onions and had to do this at one end of the long, rough table to keep the rest of them from crying.
"He did not own to it," Asim said, "though I did ask him. My impression is that he is from a very middle class."
"Parent?" Kun asked, gently splitting the peas into the bowl. Kun understood more English than he spoke, and usually said very little at all, but Asim understood the question well enough.
"His mother and father both have employment. I know nothing of his ancestors."
"Not a Tril?" Mr. Patel knew this particular breed of English boy too well, having to deal with them in the field with Richard and serving for more than his share of little sahibs and rajs in India.
"No," Asim replied. A Tril, whose blooded family traced lineages back to the Tudors or Plantagenets and had acquired retainers from postings throughout the Empire, might quickly accept an Arab in desert garb and the knives. But so exalted a heritage was counter to Peter's courtesy, apology, and failure to assert the prerogative of his class. Moreover, there was a cultured patina, the veddy English accent, the intellectually effete quality that was the product of the Very Best Schools, so abundant in the Trils; those qualities were utterly absent in Peter.
"He is not an English boy," Lee decided, returning to the onions. Chop. Chop. Chop.
Asim had been concerned when he had heard during the remarkable Hong Kong tea of the connections Peter's father had to Cambridge and that he had been called to America at the height of Operation Drumbeat and the war in the Atlantic. It smacked of an unsavoury Special Operations Executive connection to him, and sure enough, Peter eventually confirmed that someone in Intrepid's outfit had extended the invitation. By that point, Asim had done his own checking, though he did so very, very carefully. In such things, his own queries could trigger queries, so he kept them discrete and among those who trusted him more than the command to which they reported.
There was a little Cambridge mob in the SOE that Asim disliked; it would, of course, have been bad for his health if had made such opinions known. Asim was a military man, and not technically part of the SOE, though he had found that its Section V had been expanding uncomfortably close to his own grounds in North Africa.
"When was your father at Cambridge?" Asim had asked Peter.
"He obtained his degree in 1925, I think. It might have been earlier."
"That is well."
The date meant that Peter's father had preceded that uncomfortable crowd. Granted, Peter's middle class father would probably not have chummed with the gentry Rajs and Sahibs even if they had been at the University at the same time. Still, better not to know of them at all. Peter's father had come to the Baker Street Irregulars via some other unusual, but no less shadowy, way.
Peter looked at him with a question, but Asim had shaken his head with a no. Even this early in their friendship, Asim had perceived that spycraft was not Peter's business and it never would be. Killed though he had, Peter was much beloved for the light within him to burn so brightly; God had other plans for the boy-who-wasn't-a-boy who did not think like an Englishman. When the time came, and a spy's instinct told him it surely would, Asim would give the warnings to those close to Peter who would need to hear it.
It had been an interesting discussion the first time they talked of War in a serious way. It had been after Peter's first visit to the Museum with Richard, after Asim had had time to reflect and meditate upon the boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, who had killed, in whom the light of God burned, and who did not think like an Englishman.
The night before, Asim saw again the dream of the green ship with a dragon prow and a purple sail, the girl and the lamb on the foredeck. The girl in this seeing shined as intensely as ever; she was older though, and blonder, with a bow slung over her back, wearing chain mail. In this dream shown to him, he also saw the ship more clearly. The mast of the green ship was a silver sword, beautifully made, with a golden hilt. A great white bird was perched atop the sword masthead.
He and Peter were eating Arabic that day, using bread to scoop up Kwong Lee's version of fūl mudammas, British style, which even Asim had to admit, was almost as satisfying as the real thing. So he and the boy-who-wasn't-a-boy shared an Egyptian dish, made by a Chinese woman, using the bounty of an English wartime Victory Garden, under a tree in Oxford.
On this day, Asim perceived a different aspect of Peter. As he and the others had concluded, Peter did not think like an Englishman. He did, however, think like a soldier. Having seen the silver and golden sword the night before in the dream, it was a connection Asim now easily made. Whether Peter was the sword, or the sword his, Asim was not yet sure. Perhaps they were the same.
"Did you ride in the Arab Revolts?" Peter asked. He was referring to his brother Edmund's long, remarkable letter, and had questions of his own.
"I did. I rode with King Faisal, for the most part, and later with King Abdullah. We captured Wejh from the Turks in 1917 and pushed them into Medina and along the Hejaz railway. Later I rode in the raid on al-Aqabah." Because from English schoolboys it was always the same, at this point, Asim expected questions about the great Lawrence. Lawrence was a great man, to be sure. It had been a shame that the other great Arab men of that time did not have a film biographer traveling with them.
However, based upon what he had observed, Asim should have known something different would arise, for Peter was not a boy and did not think as an English boy did. Peter leaned forward and deftly took another scoop of Egyptian food into his bread as if he had done it all his life. "Would you tell me about what happened next, Friend? How the Arab guerrilla fighters broke the back of the Ottoman Empire? Because I would like to hear more about how that was done. And what you believe the Turks should have done differently."
Edmund and Glenstorm had delivered the challenge. Miraz had answered. There was one matter yet to discuss and Peter didn't want all the Old Narnians to hear of it. As their War Council filed out of the conference within the How, Peter passed a hand signal to Edmund, no longer marveling at how easily the old habits and manners had returned.
"Stay a moment," Peter said to Caspian who was making to rise. "You as well, Trufflehunter, Doctor Cornelius."
Edmund held the door until Trumpkin was the last, questioning and reluctant to leave. "In good time, DLF, if you will." It was kindly put, but an order nonetheless. "Please guard the door for us. Let no Good Beast close enough to hear."
A Dwarf would not have the acute hearing to perceive a quiet conversation through the heavy door and stone walls. Edmund shut the door firmly.
"Thank you, Friends," Peter began. "This will be quickly done. We need to discuss what will happen if I fall to Miraz, whether fairly or by treachery."
There was a gasp, a sharp intake of breath, a growl, and an unheard, but definitely felt, scowl. Peter held up a silencing hand. "Should that happen, I believe our army's best action is to withdraw and scatter as quickly as possible. There won't be much time, and if we do not retreat quickly, I think we all know what the Telmarines will do. Our numbers are too few to withstand them in earnest combat."
"But, King Peter, we can't just retreat!"
"We can and we will, Caspian," Edmund said from his post at the door.
Peter looked gratefully at Edmund. Edmund would shred him to bits for this foolishness later, in private. Yet, his brother knew as well as he did, there was only one path to victory should single combat fail. Aslan would come; they knew Aslan would come, but Aslan would also expect them to plan for the contingency if he did not.
"Doctor Cornelius, Trufflehunter," Peter said, addressing scholar and Good Beast. "I assume you know of the troubles we had in the first two years of our Rule with remnants of Jadis' followers?"
"The books speak of many months of wearying, scattered skirmishes, Sire," Doctor Cornelius confirmed. "And of the travails the Four endured to finally stamp out the Witch's foul brood."
"The tactics they used are as viable a strategy today as they were then. They are very effective when a much smaller force, such as Old Narnia here, is poised against a stronger and better equipped foe," Peter told him. "As one who remembers, Friend Badger, do the Good Beasts remember these times as well?"
"We do, King Peter," Trufflehunter said with a snuffly growl.
"Then you both must instruct Caspian in how it will be done, how to fight an enemy larger than you and slowly bleed it to death. You must teach him and the Old Narnians how to force your enemy to use ten, or a hundred, for every one you put into it."
Caspian nodded, looking thoughtful, catching the gist. He would do well, Peter judged. Eventually, by Aslan's Grace.
"Yet, ultimately you did prevail, all that time ago, when you were the larger force, against the weaker enemy," Caspian rightly pointed out. "It didn't work for the Witch's survivors. Why do you think such tactics will work for us?"
"That," Edmund said stoutly, "is a long tale that the High King will tell you personally, after he beats Miraz to a bloody pulp."
Asim learned immediately the hazard of any conversation with Peter. The boy-who-wasn't-a-boy had seized upon his every word, memorized it, and then returned three days later with a map, news clippings, and the questions only tacticians and strategists should ask. Over spicy cold noodles and chopsticks, they talked of War, bombs, tanks, and Wüstenfuchs, the Desert Fox, Field Marshal Rommel.
"So, Tobruk is here," Peter said, pointing to an ancient map of North Africa he had probably smuggled from the Library. "And the news reports make it sound as if Rommel has captured enough there to push all the way east to the Suez."
The cables had been exceedingly grim: 32,000 prisoners captured, as well as thousands of tons of fuel and food for the German Afrika Korps.
"That would be a logical goal," Asim replied.
"The Suez under Nazi control would give them control of the Mediterranean, access to oil, and an easier way to replenish their army engaged in Russia?"
Asim suppressed the sigh. This was all he'd heard of in the cables and in War Office yelling over the last week. It was strange to hear this analysis coming from a boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, even if he had killed and was touched by God. Perhaps he had killed in a soldier's cause? Though, no mere dutiful soldier thinks this way.
"Yes," Asim admitted, honestly answering the uncomfortable question.
"And General Auchinleck has taken the command from Lieutenant General Ritchie?"
"Yes," Asim said, confirming what had already been reported. He really did not have a view on that change; both were miserable in his opinion.
"In the middle of a retreat, they change command?"
Asim didn't think the newspapers had been referring to it as a retreat. That was, he thought, Peter's own, though accurate, assessment. They were also burning documents at the British HQ in Cairo and preparing to demolish the port facilities in Alexandria to prevent them from falling under Nazi control.
Peter's fingers moved restlessly over the ancient tourist map spread on the grass. The map would have been useful for British adventurers touring the pyramids of Giza on a holiday fifty years ago. It was less helpful if one wished to understand the geography of the War in North Africa.
"So where do they make the stand, Asim, because make a stand they surely must. Mersa Matruh? El Alamein? Alexandria? I can't tell from this poor excuse for a map which is most defensible."
"Next time, Peter, I shall bring a better map and you shall tell me."
"I don't believe I ever fully appreciated the difficulty of moving an army with herbivores in it," Peter sighed, exasperation warring with fatigue.
Lucy tried to put an arm around his shoulders, but chain mail interfered with familial hugs, making them neither easy to give, nor pleasant to receive. They were watching a team of Dwarfs, Bears, and Centaurs try to push their fodder wagon out of the mud.
"Unfortunately, none of our archers is a Great Cat," Lucy said, with a sigh equal to his own.
Rain was dripping off her helm and down her nose. Peter would have tried to brush it off, but with the heavy gauntlets, so delicate a maneuver was likely to be concussive in impact. Lucy delicately flicked the rain away with her own gloved hand.
"At least the carnivores can fend for themselves," Peter said with glance back at the bloodied muzzles of four Leopards sheltering from the driving rain under an Oak. As they could not help with the hauling and pushing, the Cats had taken the opportunity to hunt. The (Dumb) deer of the Northern Wilds, the Cats reported, were thin and stringy, the lack of winter grazing affecting prey and predator. The Cats were now cleaning themselves as best they could. They were fastidious about such things – something else to consider if they were ever so accursed as to have to repel a raiding Ettin party in the weeks after Christmas.
One of the Red Dwarf Captains, Roblang, slogged over, carrying a plank; he and his brothers worked to wedge it under the mired wagon, to give the wheels some purchase in the sucking mud. Dwarfs did not mind the mud, Peter considered, so long as they could still march through it. They could handle bows as well, and hardy as they were, could do on shorter rations than most with nothing to show for it than a bit of ill temper. What plant matter they ate could, for a time, come from brewed barley and hops alone. But would that mean merely replacing the grains, hay, and greenstuffs in the fodder wagons with beer barrels?
"Steady Friends," Roblang shouted. With another mighty heave from behind, the wheels rolled onto the boards as wagon, Beasts, Dwarfs and Centaurs all groaned with the effort.
"Peter," Lucy whispered. "Did you know how much Centaurs eat?"
"I think we will need to reassess that aspect of our planning with the next winter campaign."
As July ground on, Asim came to understand that Peter's peculiar familiarity with wartime strategies assumed good planning, good intelligence, good training, good leadership, good luck, and the decisive, relatively quick victories that resulted from that virtually unheard of combination of factors. Peter did not have much understanding of the sort of see-saw battles of attrition that typified the North African fighting. Nor, at first, did he know anything of mechanized warfare, although he certainly understood the profound challenges of keeping an Army supplied.
On the grass under a tree, they sat together. Asim unfurled his map of North Africa. "I understand that Mussolini has returned to Rome, as it seems he will not yet be enjoying a victory march through Cairo."
"What a pity. I'm so glad there shall be savings in tickertape and confetti."
They could have thrown the cinders from the burned documents in the British HQ in Cairo; it had been dubbed "Ash Wednesday" the day they were burned.
Peter leaned in eagerly over the map, like a hound on a scent, studying every detail. "El Alamein, is it still holding?"
"So far, yes, as you have read."
"This space here, between El Alamein and the Qattara, it's all been mined, I should think, so that Rommel won't be able to outflank the 8th Army."
Asim wasn't expected to answer that question that wasn't quite a question. Of course it had been mined.
They had found a way of communicating that gave Peter enough and yet did not compromise Asim.
Peter's finger traced the line from the Mediterranean Sea in the North to the great Qattara Depression in the south, with the tiny town of El Alamein wedged between. "So, a place that is good for nothing except Cheetahs, gazelle, salt marsh, and sand still keeps Rommel at bay," Peter murmured.
Asim heard that amusement again, vaguely ironic. There was something about the Qattara Depression that had captured the imagination of this boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, even apart from the fact that Rommel's tanks could not pass through it.
"The great Desert Fox, outfoxed by Cheetahs and sand."
Asim was with Mary, in the Library, helping her intimidate the Trils into doing her bidding. Peter, while friendly enough with the boys, also held himself slightly aloof from them. He asked Peter of it.
"My sister once told me that while she loved me as a most beloved and dear brother, as a subject of conversation, I was duller than toast."
"And?" Asim prompted.
"I have developed a profound sympathy for that view, having been subjected to the Trils' incessant discussion of Mary at every moment I am in their company."
Asim told Mary this, of course. She was quite offended. "I think it's rather flattering they pine after me so. It's quite endearing, so long as they keep their minds on what I ask them to do. Desire, in whatever form, can be quite motivating."
"Well, Peter is finding it a bit dull."
She snorted. "I am never dull."
Mary was rather missing the point, but Asim did not correct her.
It was the discussion of how North Africa might be wrestled from the Germans that made him reassess, again, the boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, in ill-fitting clothes, within whom burned God's bright light, who had killed, and who did not think like an Englishman, but did think like a soldier.
Asim had never, of course, told Peter anything about the raging discussions of where the Second Front of the War should be opened. The Russians and at least some Americans wanted another assault on Europe; the British, having already been kicked out of Europe by Nazi boots, were looking to North Africa first. Peter knew, as everyone did, that General Eisenhower had been placed in command of American forces in Europe. Sooner or later, there would have to be American forces in Europe for Eisenhower to command.
"I was in London over the weekend," Asim said to Peter one day. "I heard an American accent for the first time."
Peter nodded. "I heard one in town as well." The boy-who-wasn't-a-boy was studying the map. "Asim, I would like to share an observation with you. I understand if you cannot say anything, of course, but it has been troubling me."
"If a response would compromise me, Peter, you can be sure I will not give it, and may even lie, if necessary."
"Of course," Peter acknowledged with a casual shrug. "I know that there has been grumbling in the press about the fact that Eisenhower is here. I have been worried that those grumblings might lead to a stupid decision, made out of misplaced British pride."
"I have read those same things, and yes, I think there is a feeling of British superiority and a desire to maintain it."
Peter's hand spread across the map of Vichy, Nazi-controlled France, Morocco and Algeria. "I consider that as I look at these places under French-control. If they are invaded by Allied forces with the aim of retaking them, who would command? British or American?"
Asim said nothing, letting Peter continue.
"I suppose that is a rhetorical question, but never mind that," Peter said with a knowing smile.
Of course there would be an invasion. Why else would Eisenhower be here? At some point, Europe had to be retaken and someone would have to lead it.
"I ask this because when I look at the map, all the most likely places I see as entry points are controlled by French. And I'd guess the French may dislike the British as much as they dislike the Germans."
It was, in fact, an extremely astute observation. Asim had been called in to give views on that very subject insofar as Morocco and Algeria were concerned.
"The British did kill almost 1,300 French at Mers-el-Kébir two years ago, Peter."
"And sink or capture most of their Navy. Also, there is the historical animosity between the two countries."
"And your suggestion would be?"
Peter gave him a sideways, shrewd look, but knew better than to ask why Asim framed things as he did. He shrugged. "Land somewhere not controlled by French. Or, if they do land in a Vichy-controlled area, which really seems to make the most sense given the strategic goals, have Americans lead the invasion, so the French aren't trying to repel a country with which they have warred for hundreds of years. I know that won't sit well with many here, hence why I raise the question."
Asim said nothing, and into the silence, Peter continued his analysis.
"Good intelligence work on the ground first would let them pick landings where someone is less likely to shot back. Get an internal opposition to stage a coup so the work is mostly done by the time the force arrives. Open up some discrete diplomatic channels with Vichy. The best approach would probably call for deploying several or all of those options, depending on local conditions and the size of the invasion. For something this complex, there would never be a single, quick fix, I should think."
"Yes," Asim felt he could say. Peter had neatly summed up some of the very issues stymieing the planning of a North Africa campaign. That idea about getting some internal force to stage a coup in Morocco or Algeria was one he hadn't heard much about; it warranted further consideration.
"Speaking of command decisions, I wanted to show you this," Asim said, unfolding the slip. "I'm afraid it's making the rounds. Purportedly Auchinleck sent this to his senior commanders asking that they dispel among the rank of the 8th Army the view that Rommel," here he read from the missive, "'represents anything other than the ordinary German general.'" Asim handed the scrap to Peter.
"'PS, I'm not jealous of Rommel.'" Peter read the remainder of the note with a grumble of disgust. "This must be a wicked joke. Nazi propaganda, even. Surely, no commander would ever disseminate such a thing and expect to garner any respect from his soldiers or maintain discipline in his ranks?"
"One would think, but I have it on good authority it is genuine."
Peter handed it back with a severe frown. "He will be gone soon, yes?"
"Already, though the news must catch up to the announcement already made. Bernard Montgomery is replacing Auchinleck." Asim would leave out the fact that his replacement was to have been General Gott, but he had been shot down a few days earlier.
When was it that we began speaking as equals in these matters? When did I come to value this man's assessments and trust his judgment?
"And your opinion?" Peter asked, sharp and clear.
"A good decision."
The boy-who-wasn't-a-boy, who shined with God's bright light, who had killed like a soldier, but thought like a General, bent then over the map, smiling.
"Let us write down what we know," Mr. Patel said one night around the kitchen table. Everyone had said prayers: Asim had performed the isha'a; Mr. Patel had repeated his prayers to Vishnu on his japa mala; Kun had performed a similar repetitive prayer, but his was on a string of 59 beads rather than 108 beads and was to Mary the mother of Jesus, who Asim knew as the Prophet Isa; Lee would have performed her meditation on the Noble Eightfold Path. Mary and Richard would joke that during morning and evening prayers, there would be a traffic jam of the divine above Russell Hall.
As there was only One God, Asim thought this silly.
The methodical engineer began the list, "Apparent Physical Age 16."
"Eats non English food," Lee said.
"Polite," Kun said, which Mr. Patel interpreted and wrote down as "Courteous to non-whites."
Mr. Patel added as well, "Not a Tril."
"Very proficient with old knives and swords, thinks like a military strategist, can act far older than apparent age," Asim added, wondering if now was the time.
"Likes beavers and termites," Mr. Patel wrote, reading aloud as he did so. Responding to Lee's questing look, he said with a shrug, "Richard told me."
"From what I've overheard, he is very knowledgeable about some animals."
"And this according to Richard?" Mr. Patel asked as he wrote down Asim's observation.
"Yes."
Mr. Patel underlined 'very.'
After a rapid fire exchange in Cantonese in which Asim caught "ancestors," Lee interpreted for Kun, "Parents work, and father is a spy."
That was, based on what Asim had learned, not the full story by half, but he said nothing to contradict it. He did say to Mr. Patel, "Don't write down the word 'spy.'"
"No travel, as far as we know," Lee said.
Mr. Patel nodded. "I was just to add that."
The other three all looked up from their tea, waiting for Asim to augment the list. There was a drip of the faucet into the dishpan. The sound of an owl hooting could be heard through the open top of the back kitchen door.
"Will you tell us now what you have withheld?" Mr. Patel asked.
In most instances, in matters of spycraft, security and the War, these were not questions his friends asked. This, however, was a question about a mystery and puzzle.
"He is much loved by God," Asim finally said.
"How much?" It would be Kun who would ask this. While they all were very accepting of divine miracles and providential dreams, it was the Hong Kong Catholic Buddhist who was most comfortable with what Asim could see.
"Very much," Asim said quietly. He did not want to explain further that the light within Peter was so intense at times it made his own inner eye blink.
"Like Professor Kirke and Miss Plummer?" Lee asked.
"Similar, yes. But stronger."
He saw Lee and Mr. Patel exchange a quick look. They had evidently been speculating along this line already based upon Peter's connection to Digory and Polly.
"Based upon this information then, there is one possibility," Mr. Patel said.
Lee nodded her agreement. "Saṃsāra."
Reincarnation, the cycle of life, death, and rebirth with an inheritance of one's karma from the previous life following into the next until enlightenment or salvation is achieved.
Asim was reminded of Sherlock Holmes, popular with everyone in the house, although he truly disliked the "dirty Arabs" of the Baker Street Irregulars; one reason he distrusted the SOE was that it had taken the "Irregulars" name as well.
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
"Reincarnation?" Mary said, and Asim could hear her effort to not dismiss the conjecture immediately. She did afford the beliefs of others tremendous respect, even if she did not adhere to them herself. "You said a few weeks ago that you believed Peter to be a living saint, like the nun in Kolkata and that Aboriginal Elder."
They were in the waiting room of a specialist's office. Richard was inside with the doctor. Richard's booming voice was carrying through the walls and making the plaster shake from the ceiling fixtures.
"Your characterizations, Mary, not mine. Perhaps the God-light shines so brightly within him because he is so close to enlightenment."
"Peter is not a Buddhist, nor a Hindu, but I suppose you all have an explanation for that?" Mary said.
"There is only one God," Asim reminded her.
"So what karmic inheritance has this incarnation of Peter brought forth?"
She was trying very hard to not be sarcastic. Mary was getting a bit bored of all the discussion of Peter "Pevsnee." He thought of mentioning to her that Peter felt much the same way about all the discussion of Mary among the Trils.
"I'll show you the list Mr. Patel wrote up. I found it does not quite capture the whole of it."
Mary let out a deep, disgruntled sigh. "And what is lacking? T.E. Lawrence reborn? Or King Faisal?"
"Faisal and Lawrence both died after Peter's birth, Mary," he replied with patience. "However..." Asim turned it over in his imagination. Yes, that was the missing element. Kings among men, Lions in the desert.
"Thank you, Mary. I see it more clearly, now."
Profound, vigorous swearing erupted from the next room. "Really!" Mary cried, rising. "Stupid doctors. They obviously don't know what they are about!"
It had been the missing piece of his understanding, and so when Asim saw the dream again, it was with the utmost clarity. He saw the green ship with a dragon prow and purple sail, gliding on a sea of fragrant lilies. On the foredeck, there was a lamb and with him, the girl. In this seeing, she was barefoot, browned, and wearing a boy's strange clothes. She was weeping, her arms around the lamb, her light so brilliant and golden it was like staring into the sun.
The sail unfurled from the King's sword, for that was what he knew it now to be. Beautifully made of silver with a golden hilt, it was both Peter and Peter's sword, for surely they were the same. Atop the mast on the sword's hilt, there was a great white bird.
Hullo! You are new. He marveled at the small dragon curled peaceably on the ship's deck, coiled at the base of the sword mast.
On the ship's rail, dark against the lily sea, sat a rat and next to him, a glossy crow. A shock of recognition passed amongst them, between he, the crow and the rat.
Then, it was dawn and time for morning prayer, fajr.
Asim now saw more clearly the path God wished him to follow.
He walked as quietly as he could down the office hallway, but it never mattered.
"I've told you before, Asim, only one man has ever been able to sneak upon me unawares." The King's voice called from within Digory's office.
"And still you refer to your thirteen year old brother as a man?"
"Friend, did a boy ride with King Faisal and King Abdullah?"
"I was sixteen, not thirteen," Asim corrected.
"But you aren't sure, are you?"
In fact, Asim did not know how old he was.
Peter had swiveled in his seat and moved away from the desk before Asim entered the office. Even knowing a friend entered, still, the King in boy's clothes always retained a modicum of wariness, giving himself space to move if the situation demanded. It did not offend. On the contrary, Asim was impressed with Peter's readiness. He would have been a fine soldier. Was, had been, still was a fine soldier, Asim corrected.
The King, guarded and alert, observed as Asim carefully removed his short dagger and sheath. Peter watched as a knifeman would, tracking the would-be assailant's shoulders, chest, and weight. He knew not to look at the hands overly much; a knife could be in either hand. Taking the offered blade, handle first, Peter set it at his own desk, within reach, the sheath with it.
"Will you sit?" Peter asked. "Or shall we walk?"
"Lee and Mr. Patel are cooking again, he to help her through her worries of Hong Kong. She's packed us a few things, but as we know from that one time when it was raining, the cuisine of the India subcontinent had best be enjoyed out of doors."
"The curry did take a week to clear in here," Peter agreed.
There were also things to discuss, things Asim wished to say, and things he wished to, but could not say, and things he was not sure if he should say.
"Which reminds me." Peter sorted through the papers on his desk and proffered a small envelope. He had to blow dust off it. "Would you give this to Mrs. Kwong and Mr. Lin? I wanted to thank them for packing last week's chopsticks exam."
Asim took the slightly gritty card. "Sand. Saharan, I believe. So Mary spilled something from her bag when she came by?"
Peter expression was smug. "She showed off a tooth and I was lectured on several subjects. She did try to raise the subject of hips, so I thank you for the good advice on how to stop, as Richard would say, that rampaging bull elephant."
"You do vex her. I suspect some envy, as well."
"I don't think we need to suspect at all. She very nearly admitted to it."
Alas for Mary. She tried, much and over hard. He had explained how he had come to see it; she did not see things as he did, and probably never would. She would make her own peace with "The Enigma Mr. Pensieve" eventually.
His desk ordered if still dusty, Peter slipped the knife into its sheath and the whole into his jacket pocket with a slight grimace. It was a King's concession to the reality of Oxford that was at odds with the soldier within him. Rising, Peter gestured, as he always did, for Asim to precede him out of the office.
Now, Asim understood why. The Kings Asim had known had done the same, having a trusted guard precede them. It was courtesy for Peter, and wariness, yes. It was also a King's habit.
A/N
This chapter heralds a shift, where we begin to move from the natural world to a world of war and espionage. Bridging this gap are the denizens of Russell Hall – Mr. Patel, Kwong Lee, Lin Kun, and Asim bin Kalil, the spy and mystic. I have attempted to portray these characters and their cultures with respect and care, but it is a tall order. If I have made errors, it is unintentional and not for lack of effort. So, do let me know if I did get something wrong and I will repair the unintended damage.
Several other call outs are warranted.
"Intrepid" is William Stephenson, referred to in two previous chapters, head of the Americas part of the Special Operations Executive, which will eventually be rolled into MI6 at the end of the War.
The codebreakers at Bletchley Park were the UK decryption specialists of the War. Five weeks before the outbreak of World War II, Marian Adam Rejewski of the Polish Biuro Szfrow (Cipher Bureau) decrpyted the German Enigma ciphers and shared the results with British and French intelligence. Relying upon this work, British intelligence would be able to continue throughout the war, in fits and starts, to decode German encrypted messages generated with the Enigma and later Lorenz machines.
"Lawrence" is Lt. Colonel T.E. Lawrence, "Lawrence of Arabia." Among the men who collaborated with him during the Arab Revolts of 1916-1918, are King Faisal bin al-Hussein and his brother, King Abdullah I bin al-Hussein.
The guerrilla warfare Peter discusses with Caspian is also referred to by war historians as "asymmetrical warfare" and its use was critical to the success of the Arab Revolts and probably would have worked for the Old Narnians as well.
North Africa in the summer of 1942 was a very active time in the war, and the events described cursorily here will culminate in the hard fought, hard won and much needed victory to the British in the Second Battle of El Alamein in October, followed by the first joint land assault by British and American forces into North Africa on November 8, 1942, Operation Torch.
A huge thank you to my reviewers, who have given me such amazing things to think about and reflect upon. I am deeply grateful. As always, I greatly appreciate your thoughts and the time you take to share them.
To follow, the Conclusion of The Stone Gryphon - Part 1, Oxfordshire 1942
Chapter 15, Crossroads, Part 4
In which telegrams are sent and received and railway timetables are consulted.
To be followed by The Stone Gryphon Part 2, The Queen Susan In Tashbaan