You all know the landmarks of Narnia. Cair Paravel, Lantern Waste, Aslan's How, the Stone Table, the Fords of Beruna. But none of you have ever heard of Ravenshill. It was a large cluster of dens and nests on the western border, sitting so far on the left side of the map that it was barely mentioned in the margins. But it was never because the borders of Narnia were vast. It was because the historians and mapmakers wanted to ignore it.

Ravenshill was founded during the reign of Frank and Queen Helen, mere months after Aslan ordered the Dumb Beasts out of Narnia and started bringing in other humans to Narnia. It wasn't long before the Narnians learned that Dumb Beasts and humans could be the kind of creatures to revolt, so common sense demanded that someone keep watch on the border. The rest of Narnia laughed at them and said, "Aslan watches over us so you don't have to. Do what he says." But the folk of Ravenshill said, "Aslan doesn't eat or drink or work for us; we have our own work to do, and so do you."

One day the village was visited by an unkindness of ravens, and the group proved themselves an unkindness in the fullest sense. Civil war was quick to follow with the ravens leading the charge, and dozens of Talking Beasts and magical creatures were dead and maimed in the four-week slaughter. Then another flock of ravens were portents of another calamity, a disease they could smell in the water; within days, a hundred Talking Beasts were bleeding out of the mouth and nose, and all but five of them bled to their deaths.

The natives knew those misfortunes were mere chance, and as Kings came and went, the place remained a pleasant and quiet town without any hint of a curse. But when Aslan coined a proverb that said, "Beware of the ravens on the hills," the rest of Narnia listened. No one in the rest of Narnia wanted to trade with them, and the loveliest woods and hills couldn't make anyone pass through. And it was well known that Father Christmas avoided the place, and rumors had it that Aslan himself may have been seen once or twice from a particularly great distance. And so, for the next thousand years, pups and cubs and kits and calves and hatchlings were born, and they grew up to be dogs and cats and foxes and deer and birds, and most chose to leave, hoping to break the curse of their village and mingle with the rest of Narnia. The rest stayed behind.

And in the days when King Peter and his brother and sisters began to reign in Cair Paravel, there lived a mouse named Barrow, and he wished to God his ancestors had left the place. Ravenshill was the smallest and poorest village in Narnia, full of beasts who pawed the earth and the ground for food and shelter, and not even Barrow and his cleverness could get him another coin to his name. And now, his son lay in the family den, sweating with a fever and wheezing through his open mouth. With a pocket full of coins and a promise to pay whatever was due, he wrote to Cair Paravel.

To whomever it may concern—

My boy has been sick with a fever since the end of November. He sweats, and he gasps, and he can't get a good sleep. We have tried everything we can think of but nothing works. We don't want to impose up on you or the rest of the monarchy, seeing as how you have more pressing needs than a single lad, but he's still my lad, and if worse comes to worse, I don't want to mourn without knowing I did all I can.

I know the old super-stishons and I know the old stories. But Ravenshill is not cursed, we're just poor. If you could spare even a drop of lion grass for my lad, just enugh lion grass to get him better, you will have my life long thanks. And if it doesn't help then let Aslan work his will; I just want to do something for my lad, and I will pay you my life's wages if I have to.

Yours respectfully,
Barrow of Ravenshill

Getting a bird to deliver the letter was no easy task, since Ravenshill wasn't the sort of place birds wanted to fly over, but when a swan agreed to take five golden coins as payment, it didn't ask any questions. And when Barrow returned to his den and saw his son lying asleep and panting, he said, "Don' ya worry, lad...help's the way."

And under his breath, "It better be."

Christmas came with the next sunrise. The air was crisp and clear and frosty, a suggestion of incoming snow. Barrow's boy was still wheezing in their den, looking as gaunt and haggard as a toy chewed up by a dog, but now and then he seemed to smile in his sleep, and Barrow left him to the blissfulness of his rest. That afternoon, he and Niam traded their gifts; to him was given four shirts, one for each season, woven and stitched by Niam herself; to her was given a set of homemade watercolors and homemade brushes for the canvases he wove by hand.

That night, they made a fire out of doors, and a cooking-pot boiled over it. The meal was watery unsalted soup and vegetables, a half-wilty salad, and corn muffins that tasted as lumpy as they looked. But it was the best meal of the year, and sitting in front of the fire and watching the snow swirl over their heads was lovelier than a poem and a song.

Late that night, the swan came back to Ravenshill, and a letter was in its bill.

Dear Barrow:

You do realize that you misspelled some words, do you not? First of all, the word you're thinking of is 'superstition'. Second of all, the medicine is called 'lion's grass', not 'liongrass'. Moreover, you would do well to understand that Ravenshill is not cursed; it is simply not within the purview of the Kings and Queens, and it is abundantly obvious that you are envious of those villages that are. So do yourself a favor and stop making envy a virtue, and do not trouble me any further with your poorly written letters. I am a courtier of the King of Narnia, and I cannot be bothered with such illiteracy and imbecility. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Saddiq the Cheetah, Courtier to King Edmund

P.S.: I also go by Jedidiah, though I prefer if you call me Q—

With a sigh and a sniffle, Barrow crumpled up the note and hurtled the wad into the fire. "Feck that prat and ev'ryone he works for," he muttered."Who the hell does he think he is? He knows my boy is sufferin', and all he does is correct my spellin'?"

"Sometimes that's how lofty people are. They don't understand the problems of the little folk."

"That, or they don't care." He pulled his hat off his head and sat against the log, watching the fire throw sparks into the frosty air. His son kept wheezing in the den behind him him, and he grimaced and shook his head in disgust. "Just a Christmas miracle. Just a li'l one, that's all I ask…"

"It's not over yet, luv."

"Yeh, it is," Barrow muttered. "All's been said, all's been done, ev'ry party flung, ev'ry blessing sung. We're on our own, like we always are."

"Actually," said a gentle voice from behind them—"you're not alone."

Eyes going wide and hair bristling on their necks, the mice swung around at once, and terror and dread filled their throats. Before them was a leopard, tall and muscular, standing majestically and looking somberly on them.

"Lord help me," said Barrow as he held his hat to his chest. "Who are you?"

"Don't be afraid, my friends. I'm Juma, a courtier to Queen Lucy."

"I say!" said the mouse in awe. "Did the Queen send you?"

"No one knows I'm here, Sir. And if you please, I'd prefer to keep it that way."

Before Barrow could ask, the leopard knelt down, and two leather saddlebags slid down his neck and tumbled into the grass with a hearty rattle. At Juma's nod, the mice opened the bags, and at once they were overwhelmed by a warm and hearty smell. It was a feast fit for a monarchy of mice, with turkey soaked in juices and herbs, mushrooms tender and succulent, bread cooked to crackling perfection, and a little decanter of wine; then there was an apple pie and whipped cream and chocolate morsels that were far too big for a mouse to fit in its mouth. And the most precious gift of all: a tiny vial of red liquid that glistened like a ruby.

"Lord bless me," said Barrow. "What is all this?"

"Leftovers from the Christmas ball...and some medicine for your son."

"Oh, Lord love you, Sir!" said Niam. "Thank you, and fifty times!"

Barrow didn't answer. He was open-mouthed and teary-eyed, and his lips trembled for words. "Sir...I don't know what to say..."

"Don't say anything. Just take it with my blessing, and know that I'll help you any way I can. Now then," said the leopard as he began to turn away—"go on, heal your son, give yourselves a proper meal, and have a merry Christmas."

"But Juma!" said Niam. "What about your Christmas?"

The leopard lifted his head over his shoulder and said, "It's a merry one, now."

Indeed, Juma had his merry Christmas, but not at Cair Paravel. Yesterday's festivities were a posh affair with all the royals and elite of Narnia and the nations around, and of course Saddiq was trying to make himself the center of attention (and making a proper arse of himself) and bloviating about the virtues of the upper classes. But Saddiq was too thick to realize he had served his purpose: he got the Great Hall listening to him, and no one noticed Juma sneaking food into the saddle bags and slinking off to the treasure room to take a few drops of Queen Lucy's cordial. It was all worth it when Barrow and his family saw all that food and the medicine sitting in front of them; the look on their faces was worth more than all the banquets and balls in history.

Eight hours into his walk home, as the sun climbed into the sky behind him and threw lavender shadows across the snowy hills, a swan flew up to him with a letter in its bill.

To our dear friend Juma:

We can not begin to express our gratitude and apreciation for what you have done and who you are. No one has ever given us such a marvellous gift before, nor treated us like Narnians worth the name. After what you've done for us, we all feel like royalty. You are a good, grand soul, and we wish the world had more like you.

May Aslan bless you and give you a merry Christmas fifty times over.

With love,
Barrow, Niam and Bristow of Ravenshill

Until now, the fatigue and numb detachment of the world from his all-night walk hovered over him like a cloud. But now it faded away like the morning fog, and a merry smile was carrying him all the way home.

Two hours later, the leopard knew what was coming.

The turrets of Cair Paravel rose up to meet him, and the southern gate of Cair Paravel was starting to groan open. The centaur guards nocked their arrows, and the Kings of Narnia strode out the door with their royal robes drifting along the snow. And to the leopard's disgust, a cheetah stood between them; his face was as smug and snotty as ever, and his tail was twitching with pompous dignity.

"I don't have to tell you you're under arrest," said Saddiq.

"I was doing those people a favor, you heartless little prat."

"We ordered you to be here," said Edmund coldly. "We told you to stay for the ball, and you went around our backs."

"Your Majesty, I may be a courtier, but I am a Narnian first and foremost. It was my duty to help them—"

"It was your duty to do as you're told," said Peter, "not to go behind our backs and steal our food."

"What I took was a morsel compared to the platters in front of your faces," said the leopard. "Let me be plain: You're not angry at me for not making an appearance. You're angry because you wanted to posture yourselves in front of the nobles of the North, and you wanted me to help you make a good impression. Isn't that the point of this conversation?"

The Kings gave no reply. They stood there and went red-faced with frustration, and they went all awkward and looked guilty as their huffs billowed in the air.

"I suppose I should give you some leniency, seeing as how the four of you are still children," said Juma. "As it is, you are more than children. You are Kings and Queens. You're supposed to be the leaders of all Narnians—"

"We do what Aslan tells us, and so do you," said Peter. "That means there will be consequences for what you did. And let us assure you, Juma: You won't like them."

The leopard knew it was true. The dungeon of Cair Paravel was no pleasant thing in any season, and the thought of breaking Queen Lucy's heart with his testimony made his legs go weak. But then he remembered the letter and the smiles on the mice's faces, and the thought gave him strength.

"Well, how the mighty have fallen, Juma," said Saddiq pompously. "You were a standard-bearer of Aslan himself. You were a courtier of the King of Narnia. You should have known that men like us belong in the center of things. We're too good to mingle with the rubble and detritus of the world—"

Juma cut him off with a cough and a plash from his mouth, and saliva sprayed all over Saddiq's face and dribbled down his whiskers. The cheetah stared at him agog and stunned, but Juma didn't give it any mind. And with a scoff and a shaking away of the snow, the leopard padded through the open door, with the Kings and Queens following close behind, and Saddiq plodded behind them, looking ever so indignant.

THE END