A short, magical story for autumn, set shortly after the Golden Age of Narnia. No violence or bad language but it does deal with death.

King Frank's Eve

At the edge of empire

The sea crashed against the shore hoping to drown it, if at all possible. The silver moon made ghosts of everything below. The huts high on the promontory were no better than colanders in the face of the vicious wind. Chimneys spluttered smoke that was soon lost in the vindictive air. The White-spray had been pulled up the slipway as high as possible. It was a small vessel requiring but ten pairs of oarsmen. The restraining tree trunks creaked in occasional protest at the burden. Most of the crew, in the shacks, tried to sleep with little success. The island haven was never a popular stopover at the best of times but in that gale it was more benighted than ever.

Jonathan applied his eye to the gap between a sea chest and the archway. A curtain of sorts – strings hung with shells - separated the bedroom from the parlour. Jonathan was a solemn boy of ten, presumed to be long asleep on the makeshift bed. The lad's eyes grew heavy as sat hugging his knees, listening to his brother shifting about in the next room. Finally there came the expected tap on the door and a low muttering. Two strangers, Jonathan decided, yet only one came inside.

"You are the priest," said Will (it was not a question). Some gesture of agreement must have been made as the man was asked to take a seat. Liquid splashed into a mug – probably bathtub Canban - and then, "Just Kavi for me," the stranger said. The Calormene merchant navy had a disproportionate number of islanders. Officially, of course, only the proper worship of Tash was permitted (anything else being punishable by death). The Observances Bureau saw to that. Nevertheless, some mariners clung to their native faith and worshipped Mother Moon, even finding the occasional convert. Jonathan's brother busied himself making a pot of Kavi and nothing more was said for several minutes (a sure sign that William was nervous). Finally, the silence was broken. "I want your blessing."

"I'm told that you're going on a journey."

"I am: far away from here," Will replied.

"Your friends call you Ugursuz," the priest commented (meaning unlucky).

William bridled at that, "Nonsense; poor captains are to blame, not their crews."

"I will bless you, if you accept the help of Mother Moon."

"I do."

"Do you have the fee?" Jonathan couldn't see the transaction but money clearly changed hands. The priest rose and Will knelt before him:

"May Mother Moon always have her face to you,

May she shine in the dark and light your way,

May your purse be filled with silver as she blesses us with light,

Go forth from this place and prosper."

A simple white stone disc, an inch across, was hung about William's neck. There the traditional blessing usually ended but, as if staring right into Jonathan's eyes, the priest continued, "Beware betrayal." The boy shuddered; he didn't think he could be seen and yet…

Inside the Moon

"By the Tarkaan's mangy donkey," Jonathan said, "luck has deserted me this week." He watched his friend draw a small pile of copper coins across the table. The candles all chose to gutter at once, whilst a draught found the chimney. "I think the Djinn must be tampering with the die."

"Best thing you can do is abandon the dice for a time. Never chase your losses. Why don't you play knucklebones instead," his opponent said sagely.

Even under the influence of too much Archenland cider, Jonathan knew that to be bad advice. "You're a fool, Tom Clap – and you've had enough of my money."

"Steady on," Tom remonstrated. He focused on the jug, "Another dead man," he observed. "Landlord - a jug - if you please - on me," he said generously. Cushions and the least smoky chimney in the establishment earned the Best Parlour its name. Nearby, a party of Black Dwarfs sang heartily in the taproom. It wasn't the most respectable of public houses and was off the beaten track, several miles from the great castle of Cair Paravel. Certainly, few courtiers would choose to be seen there. Queen Reposco had caused it to be searched on several occasions, looking for renegades or smuggled goods.

Tom Cellarman bustled into the room. He was a tanned man of about fifty; he'd spent much of his life under a foreign sun and liked to keep his alehouse as warm as possible. Many of the returned exiles found their temperate homeland rather cool. "Here we are," he said, indicating the full jug, "Do you want the fire banking up?"

"Not now; that will suffice," said Jonathan. "I'll get these; I'm not living on the Queen's Purse just yet." He reached into his tight tunic to bring out his budget; the evenings carouse was nearly at an end.

"Thank you sir," said the landlord, taking the money, "that's most generous. There's someone in the Back Parlour as would like a word."

The Back Parlour was the smallest of all the public rooms and lacked a window. The rush lights resented their work and illuminated the occupant very little. Hodkin the Pedlar sat with his feet up on a stool, warming them by a small, coughing fireplace. His pack lay by his side and his right hand by his crooked knife. "Hodkin; it's been some time!" Jonathan said.

"Aye, maister, that Christmas feast," the Dwarf agreed.

Jonathan's flabby face darkened, "Three years ago, when they still suffered me at court."

"That was a bad business about your brother and I've always been sorry about it," the pedlar said politely. "He was a good man."

"He still is a good man," Jonathan snapped, "Wherever he is." Sir William Swaggart pursued by the law, scandal (and gaming debts) had found it expedient to flee the country. In fact Jonathan had been welcome at court for a long time, until his resentment became unbearable to all.

"I'm sure," Hodkin placated him.

Jonathan Swaggart sat down. "You asked to see me then? You have something for me?"

Hodkin glanced at the half closed door; he was the cautious sort which, in his line of business, was a good thing. Ostensibly he was a pedlar but he had a lucrative sideline in contraband. "You are still interested in magic, maistar?"

"Indeed."

"And you are still interested in certain customs outlawed in the Empire? Good," Hodkin paused and went to shut the door properly. "You can't be too careful. There's been a Calormene merchantman in harbour these last three nights."

"Has there?"

"Certainly – I was on it! I booked passage from the Lone Islands. I had plenty of time to become acquainted with the crew; one of whom had something very interesting in his possession."

"Did he indeed?"

"Aye; I thought of you immediately. This fellow wanted money to jump ship; he'd no fancy to grow barnacles or to remain under the Calormene yoke. I laid out a goodly sum and I think you'll be only too happy that I did."

Well met by moonlight

Five nights went gone by without success. The dingy copse dripped incessantly from every leaf and twig. Jonathan Swaggart returned to his room at The Moon each night with the sniffles. It was a poor end to the summer and nothing like the long, glorious seasons enjoyed under the Pevensey siblings. "Atchoo," Jonathan let out an involuntary sneeze and shrugged his cloak firmly about his shoulders. He sat on a tree stump, the bottom of his cloak furled underneath him. Once again he mentally consigned his anticipated visitor to perdition.

A voice from behind him made Jonathan jump. "The sons of Adam are such clodhoppers." Swaggart rose to face the newcomer, who stood before him on two goaty legs. "Even seated you sound like a squadron of heavy cavalry."

"Master Antipathis; at last! How are you?"

"Impoverished," the elderly faun complained. His eyes were perhaps his most peculiar feature: they were never still, two flies desperately trying to escape. "I have nice tastes that I can ill afford."

"No simple country living for you, hey, and at your time of life too!"

"Do I look like a bumpkin," Antipathis said tartly, "and don't answer that. Why did you want to see me?" He tugged the small, wiry beard protruding from his chin.

"You have some magic, yes?"

The faun looked warily about him. "I have some small magic, perhaps. What of it?"

"And you trained under…" Jonathan let the sentence trail off.

"Her late majesty," the faun said softly. "Trained is a strong word. She had me assist – for a time – before she came to the throne." Antipathis had an evil reputation and was shunned by his own kind. For a period after the restoration he'd vanished altogether. He'd already outlived his own generation and was obliged to seek out dissolute men and hard living dwarfs for company.

"I have acquired something – something of power – that's not perhaps of this world."

"And you want my opinion of it?"

"Not really for I'm satisfied. What I want is to know where to use it and what to seek."

"Well, you'd better tell me what it is exactly or I can't help you. Think on: be generous or I'll be stingy with my help."

On the road

"Wait here and don't dare to follow me," Jonathan cautioned his man. The thing hung about his neck on its leather thong felt curiously heavy. "Atchoo," he sneezed, "this infernal cold".

The servant grinned; he had no intention of following Swagger. A cosy inn and a flagon of ale would have been preferable to a tent, but he'd take said tent over a ride into the dark night. "Of course not sir," he agreed.

"Hm, good. Wait here then; I don't know when I'll be back but don't worry about me until noon." As Jem never worried about his master he was happy to agree.

The two tents were pitched behind a row of sickly elms at the foot of a small hill. It should provide some shelter from inclement winds. It was cloudy and the last day of summer; the sun was still sulking in its own tent like great Achilles. Jonathan left Jem breaking up firewood with a small hatchet, ready for nightfall. There was still about three hours of daylight left as he rode towards a distant line of hills in good spirits. It was difficult to take the horse over so he had to pick his way around them. The rough sketch provided by Antipathis showed him a path to take. As dusk began to fall he could see his destination and he stopped for some bread, cheese and cold sausage. When done, Jonathan spurred his horse on.

A wolf skull nailed to a pole, in the middle of the path, leered at him. It was a grim reminder of the White Witch's secret police – not to mention the reprisals that followed her downfall. Maugrim himself, last scion of that ancient, wicked line the Uffanglas, had been chief of police. "Dwarfish work," Jonathan correctly surmised. "More of their handiwork," he guessed, approaching the ruins of Jadis' house. It had actually been a small palace cum prison. Dwarfs had helped build it and Dwarfs had helped destroy it. Much of the finest dressed stone was long since carted away into the northern wilds to beautify their own abodes. What remained were the foundations, cellars and broken stones of no especial value. Many foul things had slunk towards that house in the dusk and dark. Werewolves, hags and sprites had all sought audiences with the Witch. Swaggart was nowhere near as bad as some but he was ambitious and he too sought an audience with the late Queen. He rubbed the back of his neck without thinking; the stone disc that nestled against his chest seemed to have increased in weight considerably.

Now, it was King Frank's Eve which, by tradition, was the last night of summer. Quite which of the Good Kings Frank was referenced – or why – had long since been forgotten. Indeed, few of the returned exiles were familiar with the folklore attached to it. Only the Centaurs and such folk as dabbled in the magic arts knew that it was, reputedly, a night on which to see the dead. Ancient legends said that a crossroads was the place for such an encounter. Jonathan was now convinced that the Witch's house would be even more suitable.

Pond-life

The moon was shrouded by clouds and not a single star deigned to pierce the firmament. Swaggart tethered his horse as the beast raised its objections. He had lighted his lanthorn before the last vestiges of dusk disappeared and night fell. "Now, where is it?" he wondered aloud. Somewhere there was a small pond that had been used by the witch for ceremonial purposes. "Uh!" Jonathan gasped as he walked into the bottom half of a great statue. Quite what it had been was a mystery but, certainly, it had clawed feet. That it was but a statue he was reasonably confident. Had not Aslan, Himself, freed those victims that the Witch had turned to stone?

"Ow," Swaggart grimaced as he stumbled over the traces of a broken cart concealed by greenery. It had been abandoned by Dwarfs pilfering stone. Nature did its work with aplomb. Cracked paving slabs were decorated with weeds. Ivy and other creepers wound themselves about broken columns and tumbledown walls. A sapling grew warily in what used to be the courtyard. It was decorated with coloured ribbons and many a talisman against evil.

It took Swaggart fifteen minutes to find the crescent shaped pool. Its fine marble boundary had been stripped away. Setting his lanthorn down, the man began to pull rotten wooden beams out of the water. After a few minutes of physical labour (such as he'd not experienced since he was a boy at sea) he sat down to mop his face. He was uncommonly warm and undid his tunic and shirt about the neck. He dipped his fingers idly in the icy water and spattered the cooling drops on his exposed skin.

Once Jonathan had his breath back he repositioned his lanthorn and pulled the heavy amulet above his shirt front. The thing seemed three or four times heavier than it had done during the journey. "That rock fell from the stars," Hodkin had told him. "It soared through the heavens and came down to earth in a ball of fire." The stone was dark and, in places, shone like metal. "It's not of this world," Master Antipathis had concluded, when shown the amulet in the gloomy glade. None of them knew how to read the runes inscribed upon it but some clearly depicted the moon in its various phases. The marks were significantly younger than the rock and yet still archaic. The amulet was in fact a sacred thing, worn during the distant civil war that had torn Calormen apart. The human acolytes of Moon and Sun had nearly conquered the worshippers of Tash.

Jonathan stared into the pool, hoping that the curtains of night would part to reveal the actual moon. "I summon thee," he said self consciously and feeling rather insignificant. "Oh, great queen of Narnia, I summon thee at the behest of Mother Moon." The water, shining faintly in the lamp light, remained undisturbed.

"Great queen of Narnia, I summon thee by moonlight, come to your realm once more!" Nearby an owl hooted, alarmed by his presence.

"Oh, wondrous queen of Narnia, I ask you to show yourself to me, by all the powers of Mother Moon." With that, Jonathan rose and flung his arms apart theatrically. At that moment the clouds finally parted and the moon shone down upon him. The pale, watery image of the moon wavered below Swaggart: like had called to like. With an irresistible pressure the amulet began to lower itself towards the water. "What!" Jonathan exclaimed. It was like a halter about his neck - an incredibly strong force pulling him down. Panicking, he put his hands up to remove the leather thong but the pressure was too great; he was being dragged towards the pond. His booted feet stumbled forward and he teetered on the edge of the pond. "Stop," he cried out but reply came there none. His arms flailed as he toppled and fell into the water. It was not particularly deep – no more than four feet – but the amulet became an anchor, trapping him at the bottom of the water. He thrashed, briefly, and then lay still, drowned, betrayed by the wicked thing on which he'd pinned his hopes.

The end

Glossary:

Canban: a spirit drunk in Calormen, often prohibited

Kavi: a hot beverage

Observances Bureau: a government agency in Calormen of significant influence

By the Tarkaan's mangy donkey: an expression derived from a folk tale

Djinn: supernatural spirits in Calormen

Black Dwarfs: the origin of the name is disputed, possibly derives from those who turned away from the light of Aslan at the foundation of the world

Queen's Purse: a dole paid to the most poor

Bumpkin: a rustic person, foolishness sometimes implied