3. She wakes up

When Susan finally became conscious again, she first became aware of warm sunlight on her face, soft silken blankets tucked about her, and the fragrance of lavender.

Am I home? she wondered sleepily. Was she back in Berkeley Square? She could just see Mum with her blue fox stole tossed carelessly over her shoulder, adjusting her cunning new hat with its spotted veil over her face, complaining how once again the new housekeeper she'd hired was failing to clean the dirt off the top of the radio. "Darling," she could just hear her mother saying. "Could you be a dear and take Lucy to her piano practice? I would myself but Mrs. Bentham just rang and told me that she needs help in picking out some floral arrangements for her supper party on Saturday. You know Clare takes forever in deciding these things, and she has absolutely no sense of color. Oh, thank you, dearest, I knew I could count on you!"

She could just hear her mother's voice- plummy and clipped as Anna Neagle's voice in Victoria the Great- rambling on in the way she thought socialites talked, even Susan knew perfectly well that her mother was born to a family of eight in Ballymena in Ulster, and could not remotely be considered posh. She always wished she could tell her mother to bugger off, and act like a mother for a change, instead of a professor's wife, more interested in her husband's social life and the prospect of tenure than in what her children were doing- but whenever the slightest urge to curse came over her, she felt consumed with guilt. She was her mother- how could she even think of saying something not nice? Father and Mummy provided them with a lovely home, with good things to eat and proper schooling and holidays in the country- so what if they were too busy to see much of them? Did it matter that Father had once shouted at Lucy for removing a number of his favorite antiques from the curio cabinet so she could create a magic city like the little boy in that Edith Nesbit book? Was it really all that important that Mother practically had a nervous breakdown when Edmund had pestered her for a week about getting a dog, like Nanna in Peter Pan, and claimed that she couldn't bear to have all those dog hairs nesting on her new Louis XV chairs, not to mention that having a great smelly beast would distract Father intolerably from writing his lectures? What did it matter, after all? They were her parents, and she should love them, no matter what.

When she finally opened her eyes, she grew aware that she lay in the middle of an enormous bed, in the middle of an ornate, sunlit bedroom, with a vague, out-of-focus group of faces gathered about her. "By the Lion's Mane!" one of the heads gasped. "She's awake!"

What on earth… thought Susan groggily. She attempted to sit up, when a hot hand suddenly grabbed hers. "Sister!" cried a feminine voice. "Oh sister, we have been so worried about you!"

Her eyes focused onto a pretty young woman- somewhere in her early twenties, she'd guess- who had long flowing flaxen hair, and a round, pink-cheeked face with a snub nose, and naïve blue eyes as large and unblinking as buttons. She looked vigorous, wholesome, and somewhat on the flat-chested side, and with the girl-next-door air she had about her, she reminded Susan of nothing more than a blond Judy Garland or Deanna Durbin. However, in the fantastically garish "medieval" blue-and-yellow frock she wore, she rather looked like she could be auditioning for the part of Maid Marian in a Robin Hood pantomime. It then occurred to Susan that this girl looked nothing more than a stretched-out, grown-up version of Lucy in fancy dress. God, she thought queasily, don't let that be Lucy, please…

"Susan!" exclaimed the blond Maid Marian/Judy Garland. "Do you not recognize me? It is I, your sister Lucy!"

At that, her stomach practically sank to her toes. At that moment, all her Queen Susan memories flooded back, almost overwhelming her. Susan- not Queen Susan, of course, but plain old Susan Pevensie of Berkeley Square-struggled to remain afloat amongst all these images of elaborate galleons, and tournaments, and battles, and balls, and royal progresses. She didn't know how it all happened, but… somehow, many years ago, she and her siblings had come here, to this Cloud Cuckoo-land with its castles and magical beasts. Narnia, that's what it was called. It almost seemed like something she and Lucy had dreamed up in their spare time- Lucy had such an imagination, and Susan was always game for a bit of make-believe, as long as she didn't have anything better to do.

Yet while they had lived here, in this other place, this Narnia, it had changed them, and turned them into other people- grown-ups to be exact. But they weren't the sort of grown-ups she had always admired in real life, or had even liked to look at in fan magazines and in films. They were the sort of grown-ups who had never existed- except in places like Andrew Lang's fairy books. She vividly remembered the illustrations from those books too, with the beautiful women in delicate, impractical drapery, and the knights who looked just like Arrow-Collar men, in equally delicate and impractical armor. She used to admire such pictures, and dream of herself in such exotic settings, sitting side-saddle behind a handsome French warrior, or flying on a magic carpet, her arms about some desirable Persian prince. Her stomach lurched suddenly. Yet childish wishing was one thing, and being stuck in a never-ending dream was something else altogether…

So, am I dreaming? she asked herself wildly. Her left hand was still hidden under the sheets, so she took the opportunity to pinch her thigh, as hard as she could. Well, that definitely hurt! Nothing could hurt in a dream, she knew.

Unless, of course, she had gone completely mad.

She gaped at her stretched-out, grown-up sister, and began to feel rather nauseous. "Lucy?" she whispered, shaking a little. "Is that you? You look so… old…"

"Excuse me, your Majesties!" A small, strange looking man with- God above, horns- sticking out of his skull, bustled about to her bedside, and proffered her a drink in a crystal flagon, carved all over with unicorns. She glanced down to see that he had- incredibly- the legs of a goat, like a satyr from classical mythology. Or a faun, she remembered. He wore no trousers, like Mickey Mouse, and another glance told her that any "private areas" he had (the phrase her mother had used, during the one discussion they had about the "birds and the bees") was utterly concealed by hair. She couldn't help but notice that it was a very large and tangled thatch of hair too. Before she started to blush, she quickly fetched her mind out of the gutter and told herself that there were some subjects that were best left unplumbed.

"A posset for Queen Susan," said the trousers-less faun, "to calm her nerves."

"Oh, Mr. Tumnus!" said the strange grown-up Lucy. "Do you think it shall work?"

"Never fear, Queen Lucy. It worked on Peppersqueak the squirrel after he lost his acorn stash, and you know how agitated squirrels can get sometimes. Here you are, your Majesty. Drink."

Unreality washed over Susan again, as she took the unicorn glass from the faun, and drank. The drink- whatever it was- tasted delicious, like milk, honey, cinnamon and nutmeg, along with a dozen other spices she couldn't even name. She wasn't entirely sure it worked, since what she really wanted was some of her father's special brandy, or whatever was in that hip-flask that Uncle Harold drank from at Christmastime whenever Aunt Alberta wasn't looking. But at least she no longer felt like vomiting.

"Thank you, Mr- ah- Tumnus," said Susan.

The little faun bowed. "Your welcome, your Majesty."

"Sister!" exclaimed someone else at her bedside- and she turned around to see stretched-out, grown-up versions of Peter and Edmund, likewise attired in Robin Hood costumes. "Tell us, sister," said the elder of the two, the one who surely had to be Peter- although he rather looked more like a glamorous movie star like Henry Wilcoxon than the Peter she remembered. "How fare you at this moment? Does anything trouble your spirits? Let me know, and I shall do what lies in my power to soothe your woes."

"Well- uh- I guess I'm okay, Peter," stammered Susan, unthinkingly using American slang, which she knew Mother especially detested. "You needn't worry about me. I'll be fine."

Peter, Edmund, Lucy, and Mr. Tumnus stared at her. "Oh… kay?" said Lucy wonderingly. "Pray tell, sister, what mean you by such words?"

"I mean I'm fine," said Susan. "I'm dandy. Swell. Copacetic. I'm doing absolutely jolly good!" She suddenly wanted to start shrieking with laughter. What sort of world was she stuck in- that is, of course, if she wasn't stark staring mad- that everyone talked as if they were refugees from The Boy's King Arthur?

"Madam," said the stretched-out Edmund (who looked decidedly like Leslie Howard, now that she thought about it), "I pray you tell me one thing."

"Yes, Ed?" said Susan with a grin. "Ask away."

Prim King Edmund, with his blond hair worn in a Prince Valiant bob, and in his ridiculous dark blue doublet and hose, looked entirely disconcerted at her flippancy. He's become a self-important thing, hasn't he? a mean little voice said inside of Susan. Of course, not that it should surprise you- he always was a self-important little pill. "Well, sister," he said loftily, raising his nose. "Did this Prince Rabadash behave in any way to bring upon your fainting spell? I have marked his attentions to you have been rather strong as of late. You could not of course have been seriously considering his suit!"

"By my halidom!" said King Peter, slapping his thigh. "I have noticed that too, sister. But say the word, and I shall send this Calormene stripling running back to Tashbaan, where he belongs!"

Overwhelmed, Susan sank back into her bed, pressing her hand to her forehead. At that, Mr. Tumnus- who, despite his lack of clothes, seemed to possess more sense than the rest of them- clicked his tongue. "Now, my lords," he said. "I believe we should leave the lady in peace. She has had a most trying day, and needs rest."

"Indeed so," Lucy chimed in. "He has it aright, my brothers. Our fair sister needs naught but sleep and peace to recover."

"'Twas merely the sun, I fear," said Susan with an exaggerated sigh, pressing her hand to her forehead like Juliet. "Oh! And the lacings upon my gown, I dare say. Do not fear, my dear ones, that this swart Calormene has aught to do with fainting spell. 'Twas merely my feminine weakness once again overcoming my constitution, during a time of great heat and hubbub. Do not trouble yourselves any further, although I do thank you for the love and concern for which you bear me." Dear God! She could do this faux-medieval speak disturbingly well… it was enough to make her wish for a good Benny Goodman record so she could practice her jitterbug!

At that, Lucy shooed the men out, and then turned to her sister. "Susan," she whispered. "If you need anything, you shall send for me, won't you?"

It was so peculiar to see the loving, trusting eyes of her eight year old sister in the face of this complete stranger. "Um… of course I will," said Susan, swallowing, wondering if she would choke.

"And please don't mind if I asked this- but it wasn't Rabadash, was it? Forgive me, sister, but he does worry me so!"

"Don't worry, Lucy," she said. "My faint," she lied, "had absolutely nothing to do with Rabadash."

She crossed her fingers, hoping that Lucy wouldn't ask anything more. Susan knew, that if she were in Lucy's position, she would stay there and poke at her until she got an answer. Fortunately, Lucy- more than Susan herself- knew when to take a hint. She kissed her on the brow, and passed out the door, glancing at her one more time, her brow furrowed.

Mr. Tumnus was about to follow her, when Susan whispered:

"Hey there, Mr. Tumnus!"

The faun turned around, startled. "Yes, your Majesty?"

Susan felt rather naughty for asking this, but what the devil- in this world, she was 26, wasn't she? Certainly more than old enough to drink. And by Jove, she needed a drink now, if she ever did! "Do you have any, ah- hooch around this place?"

Mr. Tumnus' round eyes practically popped out of his bearded little face. "Hooch, your Majesty?"

"Um, yes. Hooch. I mean, ah, booze, brandy, cognac, lager, cider, wine… alcohol? Really strong stuff that could knock out an elephant!"

Mr. Tumnus still stared at her as if she had fallen out of the sky. "I… believe I could find some of that, your Majesty."

"I shall be forever grateful if you could do so, Mr. Tumnus," said Susan. "For my nerves, you see." She wagged a finger at him. "Now, remember, don't tell anyone! Or I shall be frightfully cross."

The faun looked at sea, to be sure. "Yes, Queen Susan. Your word is my command. I shall go and find you some…hooch."

"Thank you ever so much!" She flashed her most charming smile at him. "The stronger, the better!"

Mr. Tumnus bowed, and departed from the room. As Susan sank back into her silken mounds of pillows, in the midst of this massive velvet-hung bed that was carved to look like a swan, that horrible, familiar feeling of being lost came over her again.

And she couldn't help but think that the sooner she drank herself into oblivion, the better.