The Chronicles of Narnia

This is it: the final book for 2013. I could have written this post some time ago, but the concepts, the sentiments I wanted to say were too complex for a quick post dashed off. No, I needed to contemplate my words, how they looked next to each other, whether I was expressing the joy, hope, sorrow and gratitude I’d set out to put down.

Book #24, the final book of 2013, was The Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis. I took the books as one, reading and pondering them as a whole. And then I put off writing about them because this time through I felt every blow, heard every star singing, wept with Susan and Lucy in the long night and felt the cavern collapsing as I struggled to find Narnia Above. As a grownup, these books purportedly intended for children, meant more than I’d expected.

I spent the entirety of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe on the edge of my seat, leaning forward into the story until, suddenly, it was done. I remembered the story being so much bigger than that. Ah well, there was nothing for it but to immediately plunge into Prince Caspian.

They were in the treasure room, finding again their presents from Father Christmas when I realized how sad I was for Edmund. It seemed that every moment was intent on reminding him of his betrayal, of the title of ‘Traitor’ he’d once worn. Now he bore the title ‘Forgiven’, but it would never say ‘Pure’. In the midst of battles, of Old Narnia fighting for its freedom, of Bacchus throwing a party in the very presence of and with the full approval of the Lion, of bears sucking on their paws and werewolves and hags being speedily dispatched, I felt for Edmund. Aslan paid the cost, but he must always carry the memory. And yet, as we see in the next book, he carries it well, using his past to bring comfort to others.

Mandy will be shocked to hear me say it, but The Voyage of the Dawn Treader has long been my least favorite of the Chronicles. It is an odyssey story and those have never been my favorite. This time through, though, I watched Eustace closely, startled to realize I think I know people like that, people who read books with far too many graphs and figures and not nearly enough dragons. So it mattered all the more when he is finally washed of his dragon skin. He is not suddenly perfect- this may be fantasy, but Lewis knew what was too much to be believed- but he is softened, receptive to the wonders that are all around him. This changes him, his entire outlook and focus, making his occasional bad moods easier to bear. And then I envied Reepicheep with every fiber of my being as he sailed away into Aslan’s Land.

Of the many characters in these books, it is Puddleglum, the Marshwiggle from The Silver Chair, who I’ve always felt is the most overlooked. We remember his glumness, his mournful way of expecting the worst, his uncanny resemblance to a certain beloved donkey. Because of that I’d forgotten his bravery, his bullheaded belief in Aslan while the Witch weaves her spells around them. The others stand bewitched, the perfumed smoke clouding their thoughts. Puddleglum, ever practical, stomps the fire out, replacing an intoxicating scent with the stench of burnt Marshwiggle foot. It’s hard to weave magic with a smell like that filling the room. I’m not a very stubborn or practical person so I often miss seeing the gifts of those who are. They strike me as prosaic, blind to the poetry of the world. But it’s those people who can stomp out magical fires.

I admit- I flew through The Horse and His Boy, waiting for the line. There’s a line, I tell you, all the way at the end, but it is worth waiting the entire book. King Lune looks at his long-lost son, recently returned to him, and gives probably the finest definition of what it means to lead-

"For this is what it means to be a king: to be first in every desperate attack and last in every desperate retreat, and when there’s hunger in the land (as must be now and then in bad years) to wear finer clothes and laugh louder over a scantier meal than any man in your land.”

I’ve heard this condensed down to “First in. Last out. Laughing loudest.” This is what it means to be king and we Christians are all children of the King. That makes us princes and princesses, striving to be like our Father. So, this is what it means to be a Child of the King: First in. Last out. Laughing loudest.

I remember The Magician’s Nephew as sort of the step-child of the books: it was loved, but always felt like it came from somewhere else. This time, in a way I don’t think I can express, it clicked. I saw the book, saw it in its rightful place and suddenly it was the cornerstone. It’s the beginning. Every good story needs a beginning. We often think The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe is the beginning and, in a way, it is, but The Magician’s Nephew sets the stage for the end. I read of the creation of Narnia, heard the stars singing with the Lion and I felt utterly sad because I knew the harsh times that were coming. Already, at the birth of the world, there was an evil lurking on the sidelines. More than anything I wanted to scoop the baby world up in my arms to shield it, to keep it safe, but then where would the story be?

If The Magician’s Nephew made me sad The Last Battle is heartbreaking. Always before, evil comes to Narnia from outside only this time the evil grows slowly from within. Deceit and twisted words bend the Narnians’ beliefs into a whip, a burden of fear. The little creatures sit outside a poorly-lit shack, waiting for their god to come out, feeling confused. They’d thought he was good. They’d thought he was kind. It’s the confusion of the littlest that make me want to cry and scream and reach through the pages to tell them the Lion is who they’d thought. He is good and he is kind and they are being lied to. It isn’t enough for me to see the wicked ape destroyed; I want the little creatures’ innocence back. I rage in my mind while the story plays out on the page.

And then Aslan steps onto the stage and I am calm once more. He will fix everything I cannot.

In Aslan’s Land he makes it all okay again. They stand in the sunlight to hear the Lion say, “The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.” So begins Chapter One of the greatest story that will ever be and that will never end, with each chapter better than the last.

Sometimes when I am tired, when I am so stressed I have to tell my lungs to breathe, I think to myself, “This is the prologue. One day the story will begin.” And then I kindle the small flames of my heart with the whispered cry-

 Onwards and upwards. Narnia and the North!