My father is dead. There—I've said it. I'm not in denial, and I'm not in shock. He went up a tree to rescue a bear cub. And since no one was around to help my father, he fell to his death.
And I'm not bitter. Why should I be? I know how things work. Men die. Animals die. Once we're dead, we stay dead, and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Of course, this whole thing called death is entirely unnecessary; if we simply boarded a ship or went on a long journey to a faraway land, there'd be none of this rot about writhing in agony and grasping for life and watching everything fade away as we breathe our last.
But I'm not bitter. Why should I be? It's not like my father was murdered. Someone was in trouble, and he died to save them. Besides, it's that stupid bear cub who killed him. It's the little ass that got itself stuck in a pine tree. My father went up the blasted tree to get the little blighter down, and the bear lost its grip and started to fall. My father jumped and caught the little brat in his jaws. Thanks to him, the cub came home with a bruise, and my father died the second he hit the ground.
And you know what? I don't blame my father. Whenever there was a mess, he had to go in himself; he didn't want to see other people suffer, so he suffered in their stead.
No, if anyone's to blame, it's Aslan. He wasn't there to catch my father. He wasn't there to rescue the cub. He wasn't there to stop the the Secret Police from torturing the mother bear and sending the cub into a terror. No, Aslan came back to Narnia six hours later, waltzing in with glorious majesty and bringing spring with him.
My father missed him.
My father missed him by six hours.
But I'm not bitter about it. Why should I be? He's not doing anything wrong—just putting the Sons of Adam before animals, that's what. And why shouldn't he? They're the Sons of Adam. They fulfill prophecies and sit on thrones and look all regal. It's not as if we do anything important—just living and dying and burying, that's all.
And does anyone care? No. Ever since Aslan came back, Glasswater has been empty. I'm the only one here. I'm the only one mourning my father like a proper bloke should. Two days since the funeral, and no one's about.
I know where everyone went. To Cair Paravel, to celebrate the coronation of the Kings and Queens. Prophecy, Adam's Flesh and Adam's bone, we shall have spring again, blah, blah, blah. I'm not celebrating, thank you very much. Someone has to honor my father, and it might as well be me.
Three days since my father died, and everyone's coming back with bellies full and faces aglow. And then everyone gets a look at me and their eyes dart away. They know what I've been doing, they know what's on my mind, and they don't want to think about it (God forbid they're actually sad).
Unfortunately, I have to think about it. It's my father who died. He was our little bit of spring in the never-ending snow and ice, and he was my best friend and my greatest hero. And he died before I ever had the chance to say goodbye...
No, I'm not crying. I nearly drowned at the funeral, and I've been bawling the last two days. I haven't had any sleep for the last three, and now I have to cry through the night? I can't. It hurts too much. It hurts to sob. It hurts to shed tears.
Damn it, it hurts just to hurt!
There. It's done. One hour of bawling isn't so bad.
Oh, and now my fiancée's coming round. Padmi. Most beautiful tigress in the world, voice like a queen and the heart of an angel. She must have seen my face crumple, and now she's coming here to console me...
What do you mean, Aslan's dead? Oh, the Witch killed him? Serves him right, the silly fool. (Anyone who lets my father die is an accomplice to murder, that's a fact.) Hang on—Aslan's alive? Why would he pull a stunt like that? Oh, I see—he rescued a Son of Adam who betrayed him. Then there was a battle in Beruna, to overthrow the Witch and her army? Oh, I'm not joining in that. I have no interest in fighting for a monarchy who puts the Sons of Adam ahead of the rest of Narnia, thank you very much.
Tell me where he is now; I have a bone to pick with him.
Oh, of course I can't. He's gone. The Kings and Queens of Narnia have just been put on the thrones. And of course, he left in the middle of the coronation, and he's going away.
No, no, no! Dammit, I'm not crying again. I can't do it!
Don't worry, I didn't make a scene. I ran back to my den and sobbed quietly. I reckon I might as well do it as often and as loud as I can; if I don't purge these feelings, they will consume me. Besides, I've pulled myself together enough to get some sleep.
"Dev, Aslan's here to see you."
Well, so much for a good night's sleep. Aslan's sitting there, on the other side of the bridge, staring at me and waiting for me to move. Padmi, can't you give me anything other than bad news?
"Dev, he's offering you a job in Cair Paravel."
Oh, so that's how he's trying to win me over? Well, go back across the bridge and give him a message. If he doesn't bring my father back to life, he can give the job to someone else.
"But it's Aslan, love. You can't bargain with him."
Watch me. I dare you to watch me.
My father was our little bit of Aslan in the everlasting winter. He gave everything he had to help his neighbors, and then he gave his life to save another. But what does the Lion do? Nothing. How does the Lion honor his memory? He doesn't. He doesn't apologize, he doesn't mourn, he doesn't show up for the funeral—nothing. Apparently, a traitorous Son of Adam matters more than a tiger who gave his life.
Well, let me tell you, Padmi: He can wait there until the bridge crumbles. He can stare at me with those phony sad eyes until they rot in their sockets. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to sleep. With any luck, he'll be gone when I wake up.
He's still there.
I was asleep for the last twenty-four hours, and he hasn't moved an inch. He's still sitting there and staring at me with those duplicitious sad eyes. When is that arse-faced imbecile going to learn? I have no desire to say a word to him, not until he brings back my father. And if he thinks I'm going to walk over there and share a word with him, he's brainless as a rock. I'm going to keep sitting in the grass, thank you very much; he's going to learn I can be as stubborn and unfeeling as he is.
"Dev, how long are you going to keep this up?"
Dear Padmi, when will you get over your infatuation with Aslan? Do you not care that my own father died? Do you not care that Aslan isn't bringing him back? Do you not care about my feelings and my wants?
"Of course I care! But I have to get on with my life, and so should you."
Get on with my life? My father was the best thing in my world, and I lost him! He was the best thing to happen to this village, our little bit of spring and our little bit of Aslan when the real thing wasn't there, and now he's dead. He went looking for food when people went hungry; he kept the whole village in our home when a blizzard came through; when the Secret Police came around, all he did was show his face, and they left us alone. But who's going to honor his memory?
Well, it certainly won't be Padmi. She goes on and on about how splendid and majestic he is, and how the Kings and Queens of Narnia look so regal and proper.
Some fiancée she's turning out to be. She ought to marry Aslan, since she's so enamored with him.
(Aslan and Padmi? Ha! That would be hilarious if it weren't so obscene.)
It's been a week, and he's still there. Sunup to sundown, like a sentry, waiting for me to make a move. Surely he has better things to do, like all the other nations around the world who want to sing his praises and kiss his paws. Why doesn't he just go all the way south, through the pass? I'm sure Archenland would be better company than a tiger who lost his father, anyway.
Anyway, I'm done brooding. I figured I can enjoy seeing Aslan sulk. The poor sod—now he knows what it feels like to wait. I wish I could stand here, soaking up every minute of this, but we have a new leader to appoint. Garrow's a great cougar, my father's best friend, and a real brick; he's going to be as good as my father was, just as compassionate and caring.
"Dev, he's been there two weeks. You need to make up your mind."
I stand corrected.
"You've been sulking and lying about ever since your father died."
That's the point, you fool. If Aslan brings my father back to life, we won't have to suffer a loss. (And don't give me that look; you know what I'm doing makes sense.)
"If he wants to bring your father back, he will. Whatever he does, we might as well get on with our lives."
Not if I can help it. All he needs to do is bring my father back to life, and everyone will be happy.
But he hasn't. My father's still dead. His bones are still lying in a grave somewhere, and Aslan won't cover them in flesh and fur again.
And of course, my fiancée doesn't care. Then again, she hasn't given a rat's arse since the incident, so what else is new?
"Dev, you have been putting him off for four weeks, and it has not brought your father back."
I used to listen to Padmi's voice with delight, but now she sounds like a bee in my ear.
"What it's doing is killing you. You can't eat, you can't sleep, you're too angry to cry—you look as if you're halfway to your grave. Just take the job or turn it down—just do something. If you don't make up your mind, our engagement is over."
I suppose I ought to take the job. Father would want me to; it's only practical. I'm not dead yet, and there are plenty of Narnians and plenty of needs. Besides, Aslan's still sitting there. Whatever he wants me to do must be important.
Or he just wants to win the battle of wills. If so, I can't give up—which is what I'd be doing if I took the job. And what would that tell everyone? That Aslan can do whatever he wants, and we just have to suffer through it? Maybe that is the fix we're in. Maybe he can do whatever he pleases, and we can't do a thing about it. But am I the only one who has principles? This Lion was the one who let my father die, and he won't even bring him back to life. He offers no condolences, no sympathy, no compassion—just orders. That Lion has my father's blood on his paws, and now he has the audacity to give me a job. A job where I can serve my country. A job where I can help others.
A job where he's my employer.
Aslan my employer? Hah. I think I'd rather die.
Six weeks.
Padmi said I looked as though I were halfway dead. I must be, because I can feel it. I can't eat. I can't sleep. I'm too numb to speak. No one wants to talk to me; all the cubs and hatchlings avoid me. (So do their parents.) Padmi's gone to Beruna, no doubt to find some other chap who doesn't make her miserable. Who could blame her? Who could blame anyone? I saw myself in a rain puddle; I look like death walking.
Enough is enough. I'm going across the bridge.
I thought I'd have made up my mind, but I haven't. The end of the bridge is scrolling toward me faster than I'm ready for, and I don't know what to tell him.
Whatever I choose, I ought to live with it—no, that doesn't help. I think I'm going to regret my choice, no matter what it is. Well, then, I ought to choose the one I'll regret the least—no, that doesn't help, either. If I take the job, I would just be giving Aslan the satisfaction of ordering me about, and everyone would know I gave in to him. And if I don't take the job, I would be throwing away a chance to help others.
I don't know what I'm going to do. Whatever it is, at least I'm going to do something.
I'm lifting my head. I'm looking him in the face.
And all at once, I know what I'm going to say.
"What do you want me to do, Sir?"
THE END