Last Watch

O0O0O0O

"It's like old times," said Lucy. "Do you remember our voyage to Terebinthia - and Galma - and Seven Isles - and the Lone Islands?"

"Yes," said Susan, "and our great ship the Splendour Hyaline, with the swan's head at her prow and the carved swan's wings coming back almost to her waist?"

"And the silken sails, and the great stern lanterns?"

"And the feasts on the poop and the musicians."

"Do you remember when we had the musicians up in the rigging playing flutes so that it sounded like music out of the sky?"

~Prince Caspian

O0O0O0O

The men came out of the shadows at dusk, emerging from the thickest part of the forest and walking down to the beach together. They did not speak as they walked; in fact, if it had not been so nearly night time, you might have imagined that they were a procession of mourners, so solemn and steady was their pace. The purply-blue of the evening sky might have been their mourning garb, and to a man, each bore the countenance of he who has lost his dearest friend. Not a sound could be heard as they walked, save the soft hiss of flame from the lanterns they carried, the muffled squeak and crunch of the sand beneath their feet, and the muted splash of the waves lapping at the beach.

Only when they reached their destination did one of them speak.

"Well, friends," he said, and together they looked up at the object beached before them, "well . . . here she is."

And all together they looked, craning their necks and staring up at the bulk of the ship on the sand.

She had been a grand ship in her day. Even now, run hopelessly, irreversibly aground in the twilight of her existence, there was none in the kingdom to touch her for grace. The workmanship was remarkable, and you'll not find any like it in our world, though you may search the whole earth over. She had a swan's head for her prow, and the fierce, martial expression of that animal was perfectly captured, as were the elegant curves of its wings, enfolding the sides of the ship like the sweeping, silken lines of a lady's gown. Only with the greatest effort did the men cease to stare at her and, one by one, set the rings of the lanterns they carried between their teeth to free their hands for the climb. They took hold of the iron rungs embedded in the side of the ship, ascending silently to the deck. Once they were all there the four of them stood, looking around again.

For the greatest part, they did not have the look of explorers about them. Three of them were aged men, and one could tell at a glance that they were seeing something they had seen many times before. The fourth, somewhat younger fellow stood close by his elders and looked around as well, not with awe, but with respect. He had not sailed on this ship in the same manner as the others, but he had heard their stories and he remembered them now in all that he saw.

There were the empty rings that had held the lanterns that blazed long into the night. There, on the poop deck, they had set up tables laden with every sort of rich and delicious food and feasted until the lanterns went out. There had been music, and dancing. Even now, if you shut your eyes almost the whole way, and pretended that the crash of the surf was the wild, uneven rhythm of the oldest Narnian dances . . .

But there were no Kings and Queens, anymore.

And that was the problem, really; the Splendour Hyaline would never really be the Splendour Hyaline again, not without King Peter to stand by the Captain and look out over the waves, nor without Queen Susan to head the feast table and cajole the others into merry conversation. Without King Edmund to sit on the deck with the charts and maps spread out before him, weighted down with odd, heavy objects he had found to keep the wind from stealing his papers, without Queen Lucy to shin up to the crow's nest and have a friendly chat with whatever lonely fellow was keeping a look-out . . . it simply wasn't the same.

"Well, my boy?" one of the older men spoke at last, glancing to the youngest of their number. "What do you make of it, then?"

The boy swallowed. "It— it's not exactly as I imagined it, Uncle," he admitted, and the older man nodded.

"No, nor could it be . . . but look a little closer, and I think you'll find the bones of truth are still here, if no longer the meat of it."

"Always one for a colourful metaphor, weren't you, Corin," another of the men muttered, drawing subdued chuckles from them all.

The bit of strained humour seemed to be what they needed to get them moving, each departing from the little group to seek separate parts of the ship. They held their lanterns aloft, for it was now nearly nightfall, and without the light they bore they would likely have gone smacking into things all over the place. Of course, there weren't even that many things left to smack into; everything that could be removed had already been, leaving behind only those things that could not be carried away. The walls, the windows, the planks of the deck and stairs . . . and the memory of everything that had happened there.

O0O0O0O

Corin claimed the crow's nest. His nephew had looked a bit doubtful about this, no doubt wondering what his parents would say if he came home to say Uncle had fallen from the rigging of the ship they had gone to guard, but the other two men merely traded resigned smiles, and waived command of the crow's nest to the Prince.

Corin ascended with, if not the speed of his youth, then at least the speed of a man some years younger than himself. Many times had he done this, and he found that it had lost none of its thrill— the swing and sway of the rigging and the buffeting gusts of wind, always stronger and fiercer the higher up you got.

He had not always climbed alone.

"I'll race you!"

"Oh, no, Corin, what if you— oh, Corin!" Queen Lucy had cried, as he took off climbing without a second word of warning, "Corin, you didn't even shout 'go' and— oh, see if I don't beat you, then!"

And they had been off, the pair of them, scrambling up as nimbly as a pair of monkeys. Queen Susan, somewhere far beneath them, had shouted a nervous warning to have a care, and they had called back reassuring promises that were snatched away by the heedless sea winds. Lucy's golden hair had streamed out behind her in the breeze, and her face had been flushed with exhilaration and exertion both. His had probably been the same, though he was focused too intently on the task of the climb to bother assessing exactly what his face was doing.

She beat him, of course; it had been years before he could manage to best her in any contest. He could probably, he thought, have won a boxing match against her, but one didn't box with Queens, because Queens didn't box (unless one was Queen Susan, catching a Prince stealing the sugared swan from the top of a courtier's wedding cake; then, apparently, Queens boxed ears with the best of them).

"You always win," Corin observed, once they had achieved the crow's nest.

"It's because I am bigger than you," she had explained kindly but matter-of-factly. She stood beside him, and they looked out over the boundless, glittering sea. "One day I expect you will be bigger than me, and then perhaps you will win at things, too."

He had nodded agreeably, perfectly willing to wait for this elusive day to find them at last.

"When I am bigger than you," he decided, "I shall be able to do all sorts of things I can't do now, isn't that so? Things that King Edmund and King Peter can do, that I can't do just yet?"

"Oh, yes," Lucy nodded, leaning forward and hanging a little over the wall that hemmed them in, "any number of things. You shall judge cases as Edmund does; you will listen to both sides and you must decide what the fairest ruling must be. You will ride to the wars, as Peter does, and you shall be first in every charge. You will one day shoot almost as well as Susan . . . though I don't expect you will ever hold conversation as well as she, but that's all right, I think; I can't, either. And you will learn tilting, jousting . . . Peter has promised to teach you himself, hasn't he? And he's a fine teacher, you may be sure . . . and then we will do all those things together, and I am sure you will win at some of them. Oh, we will have an awful lot of fun, Corin!"

"Don't we have fun now?" Corin had asked, wounded, and Lucy was immediately contrite, turning to reassure him.

"Oh, yes of course we do! I just mean, if we have fun when you are small, think how much more fun we shall have when you are bigger. Do you see?"

It had seemed a perfectly logical explanation to Corin, and he had accepted it gladly. Then Lucy had turned back around and gave a little cry of joy, pointing out at the water.

"Ooh, look! Porpoises!"

And they had hung precariously out of the basket, staring down at the water in shared joy, the best of friends on the very best of days.

Corin stood in the empty crow's nest, and felt the feeble shore breezes buffet his hair. Those days were long gone, now, and his dearest friend was gone, too. But he closed his eyes, drew deep breaths of the salt sea air, and for just one sweet, fleeting moment, was transported.

O0O0O0O

A second man claimed the vantage point offered by the poop deck. It gave him a clear view of any possible approaching forces, and he considered it a sensible location for a night watchman to hold . . . but in truth, vigilance was not his first reason for choosing it.

Had they truly expected that any looters would appear to strip the Splendour Hyaline on this, the last night before they set torches to her, they would have come in greater — and younger — numbers than they had done. Instead, it was for the largest part those who felt bound to the ship that had volunteered to take this last watch, and he had been one of the first to offer his services.

My lord Peridan let his hand trail across the magnificent carvings that had hemmed in their feast table. The scenes cut into the wood were lovingly, masterfully rendered with a workmanship little found these days. The creeping, twisting vines of the dryads were whimsically intertwined with with the riotous splashes and dances of the naiads. He followed the progress of the images, finding swans in flight, sea creatures leaping from the waves . . . the fearsome, roaring countenance of the Lion . . . Peridan let his hand hover over each, and then, bowing his head, recalled how the rich, dark stain of the wood had looked with the light from the lanterns flickering over it.

"A toast!" He had raised his goblet with the sort of loud cry that was always necessary to cut through the chatter and laughter of the best parties— and Queen Susan invariably gave the best parties. "A toast, to our fair Queen, and most gracious hostess for this evening. She who draws beauty from even the simplest of things, and is so generous as to freely share it with all of us. I drink to this evening; to your triumph, Lady," he concluded, bowing to a fiercely-blushing Susan, and draining the dregs of his cup.

All around the table immediately followed suit, raising their own goblets with cries of assent.

"Her Majesty!"

"The Queen's grace!"

"Our hostess!"

By the time everyone had finished, Susan looked quite ready to drop under the table with embarrassment. Nevertheless she inclined her head in thanks to all of them, and made a pretty speech about how a hostess was nothing more than a lady at a lonely table, without the merry company of such fine guests as she was privileged to entertain tonight. Queen Susan excelled at pretty speeches, and when she had finished this one everyone else was quite red-faced but pleased, too. Then they fell once more to chatting with each other, giving Peridan time to study the regents around the table.

King Peter was laughing at something the Dwarf to his left had just said, his head thrown back in honest, rich appreciation of whatever the joke may have been. King Peter had that certain knack of always looking a King, no matter what he wore or where he sat, and here, in commonplace clothing, with a fine meal before him, he looked no less a King than he did when he sat enthroned at Cair Paravel.

Queen Lucy sat near Queen Susan, the younger woman a bubbling, beaming guest at her sister's table. She chatted with the courtier beside her, making little sallies and then laughing apologetically at her own jokes. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled, and the lamplight played generously over her hair, drawing out flickers of deep gold, making the young Queen look like a sort of burning torch herself.

From the expression on Queen Susan's face, Peridan would guess that the older Queen thought much the same thing. She was, for the moment, speaking to nobody, but rather resting her chin on one slim hand, looking at her younger sister with a sort of fond, faraway expression that suggested that, for a moment at least, the hostess had left the table in favour of her own personal reflections. It was actually not an uncommon expression for Susan, whose private thoughts seemed often to be her own best company. Peridan found it was such a peaceful, gentle expression that he could not quite bring himself to look away.

It was King Edmund who finally broke the spell, turning from the Faun to his right to address Peridan on his left.

"Look very much longer at my sister, milord," he said, "and my brother and I may be forced to enquire after your intentions!"

Peridan jumped in alarm and surprise, turning to anxiously reassure the King that he meant nothing improper by it, only to find that Edmund had a glint of amusement in his eye.

"Peace, friend," King Edmund laughed. "And protest not so strenuously, next time, else I shall be forced to consider the Queen's grace insulted by your vehemence!"

Poor Peridan looked beseechingly at the King, and Edmund laughed.

"Your pardon," the King entreated, clapping the courtier on the shoulder. "How is this, then— I understand you meant nothing improper, nor did you mean any slight by your denial of impropriety. Is it well?"

It was well; Peridan smiled gratefully, and said as much. Edmund smiled too, then returned his attention to his food, leaving Peridan to steal one last admiring glance at their hostess. Susan was talking once more, responding to a query made by the courtier on her left. She inclined her head in assent of some sort, made a small gesture, and then turned her attention back to the sumptuous food before her.

Music of the lightest, cheeriest sort surrounded them, the chatter of a merry group of people filled the air, and the Queen glowed with the quiet contentment of a job masterfully done.

There was no music, now. There was no feast, there were no joyous feasters. It was dark, and the single lantern cast a lonely, feeble glow on the lone figure who stood on the deck— my lord Peridan, alone with his thoughts.

O0O0O0O

Below decks, the oldest man in the little party had found the cabin that had once been the Captain's. He eased into a sitting position on the bench built into the wall under the window. He knew there was no real chance they would need to defend the ship that night, and though he would be one of the last men anyone dared to call a coward, he was privately glad to know he would not be called upon to wield a sword tonight. In his day he had been a fine fighter, but tonight, he was here only to remember.

My lord Kerron had fewer memories of the Splendour Hyaline than some of his companions. He was not a seafaring man, but there had been a day, in the very distant past, not long after the monarchs had been first crowned, that he had sailed with the Narnian Kings and Queens. They had been set upon by brigands and he had on that day been privileged to serve in defence of the ship and his regents. When the battle had ended, he had stood in this very room and sworn his fealty to the High King, who granted him a knighthood. Years had not dimmed the memory, for King Peter was not the sort of man one forgot.

"What man stands before us today?" King Peter had asked. The High King was a boy without even the shadow of a man's beard, but already one could see that the weight of authority had settled on his narrow shoulders like a mantle. He would bear the burden well, better than many men thrice his age.

"I am Kerron, lord of Blue Rock, Sire."

"What is it, Lord Kerron, that recommends you to us?"

"My use of my sword in service to the King recommends me, Sire."

"Your use of your sword in service, and no other?"

Kerron had been about to agree that this was so, but another spoke before he could.

"His sword and one other." King Edmund stepped forward. He, too, was yet slight of build, but nobody, looking at the solemn expression on his face, could have mistaken him for any ordinary youth. Already the boy carried the cares of thousands. "This man has acquitted himself in my sight. He is bold, brave and just. I recommend him unreservedly for the honour my lord King would bestow."

King Peter inclined his head. "The King recommends you to us, my lord Kerron," he noted.

"The King," said a new voice, "and the Queen." Queen Susan stepped forward too. She was a girl of gentle aspect and soft voice; Kerron hadn't heard her speak more than three words before that point, and it came as rather a shock to hear her speak so many now. "This man did risk his life for the lives of others," she said, and spoke the words as though they were a poem or story, rather than the simple truth. "He gave of his body and spirit to those who were ailing, and has proven himself worthy to bear the shield of the Lion."

Then she stepped back as gracefully as she had stepped forward, and Kerron looked back to King Peter.

"The King, the Queen, and no other?" King Peter wondered.

"One other," said Queen Lucy, and pushed and squeezed a little bit, to wiggle her way between two very large fellows who hadn't seemed to realise she was standing patiently behind them. She emerged to beam at Kerron, then make her address to Peter. "My lord King," she said, the words sounding strangely formal coming from such a small, merry child, "I recommend this man to you. He has comforted me when I could not see happiness for myself. His devotion to us and our kingdom, and the high regard in which I know he holds your crown— by these virtues I do recommend him to you today." Then she stepped a bit sideways, to where Queen Susan was waiting. Both girls smiled at one another as if celebrating the testimony that each had given, leaving Kerron to look once more to King Peter, whom he found was smiling, too.

"By the testimony of these three witnesses," said the King, his smile warming his words, "thy King and both thy Queens, and for the use of thy sword in loyal service of the crown, we grant thee, Lord Kerron of Blue Rock, the title of Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Table, for services rendered unto thy kingdom and our crown. Arise, Sir Kerron," with a ceremonious tap of the sword on each of the new knight's broad shoulders, "and bear it well."

The memory did not leave him easily. Kerron pressed heavy hands to his weary face, rubbing at it as though by doing so he might smooth away the lines and somehow undo the years that stretched out behind him.

The good Kings— Peter, as worthy a leader as any man could hope to follow, and Edmund, the most impartial judge in that or any land. Their Queens— all the world envied Narnia her beautiful Queens, Susan as gentle and lovely as a morning in spring, so very tender and merciful, and Lucy, so bright and bold, so utterly unafraid. He would have followed them gladly to the ends of the world, each one of them; he knew of no Narnian who would say otherwise. Yet they had slipped away without any warning, vanishing into the wood like the lost children from some gruesome fairy tale. All of Narnia would have followed them to whatever fate had met them there, yet Narnia had never been given the chance.

And now this, one of too few places left with memories alive within it . . . soon it would be gone, too.

O0O0O0O

Prince Ram did not know where to go, exactly. His uncle had shinned up the rigging to the crow's nest, lord Peridan had climbed the steps to the poop deck and Kerron . . . well, he'd disappeared somewhere, and Ram got the impression that the older man would not welcome company just now. So the Prince wandered toward the prow of the ship, where the noble swan's head looked out over the dark waters, scrambling up onto the railing and arranging himself as comfortably as he could.

Ram sat in silence for most of the night. He knew it was a solemn occasion; he knew, if not in practice, then at least in theory, what this ship meant to his uncle and the men who had joined them this night. He knew what the Kings and Queens who had sailed in it had meant to everyone in the kingdom that lay to the north of his own. He knew all of this, however, only in the most abstract way; in the same way that you learn about great kings and queens of the past in school, Ram knew that great Kings and Queens had once trod on the deck of this ship, because he had learned of them from the people who had known them. In the way that you learn of important dates and battles in history, Ram had learned of dates and battles connected to these Kings and Queens, and because he was a young man whose parents had taught him to have a sense of duty, he tried very hard to appreciate how important this ship was and how important the monarchs who had owned it had been.

It went about as well as you might expect it to, which is to say, not well at all. Poor Ram sat draped along the ship's rail, propped up against the curve of the swan's neck, and tried to look very solemn and introspective. He watched the stars come out, twinkle, and finally fade as the sky began to lighten. He slept only a little, and did not mind that no looters appeared to raid the ship— he was, after all, more his father's son than he was his uncle's nephew. Looters would not have made his night more enjoyable. Instead he watched the sky, and only as the stars began to fade did he stir, finding that he felt stiff and restless and more than a little guilty.

It was true that the ship held no memories for him, but many of his memories were filled with tales of this ship. He had grown up with his father's fond recollections of the rulers who had been his firm friends. His mother, never one much given to sentimentality, had nevertheless spent quiet moments with her son reflecting on the kings and queens who had welcomed her as a cousin and friend even when they hardly knew her. And his uncle . . . well, if Ram didn't know with such certainty that Corin was a truthful man, he might have been tempted to disbelieve some of the stories Uncle Corin told about his misadventures on this ship. Then the ship had run aground, and there was no way to safely pull her free. She was old, and her timber too worn to be of much use, and so at daybreak men would be coming to torch her. Ram was not much bothered by this, but he knew that the men who had come with him to watch the ship were bothered indeed, so he sat on the prow by the swan's head, and tried to be mournful. He found it tricky going, though— the sun was coming up.

Ram loved the dawn. He rose with it each morning, and had done so ever since he was a child. The way the sun bathed the sea in pink and gold, the way gulls rose and took flight, wheeling and screaming in angry appreciation of the new day . . . he felt his heart grow lighter at the sight.

Almost without knowing what he was doing, he dug around inside his doublet, coming up with a scrap of paper from his lessons earlier that day and a stub of charcoal he had been using to draw whiskers on his little sister ("I want to look like Papa, Ram, please? I promise if Mama scolds I shall say it was my own idea, only please may I have whiskers?").

Spreading the paper out on the rail before him he began to sketch, and slowly, under his hand, a shape emerged. He drew dark curves, bold and sure; the curves of a powerful ship, cutting through the waves on his paper as the sunrise splashed across the living sea before him. Ram's creation was reminiscent of the ship on which he sat, and yet it was also distinctly different; the style of the Splendour Hyaline was an older one, and not one that captured his imagination. The wings of the swan, the animal's head prow, yes, those worked in their own way, but he envisioned something lighter; sleeker; a little faster. And as for swans, those were well and good, but this was not a ship that would feature a swan. A bold ship required a bold figurehead . . . Ram's eyes gleamed. A dragon. A dragon's head. There would be benches belowdecks for the rowers, when the single sail couldn't quite catch sufficient wind, and . . . the charcoal flew ever faster. Something new was coming to life under his fingers.

Ram bent his head over his labours, so absorbed in this new thing that he did not notice the descent of his uncle from the crow's nest, nor the reappearance of Kerron from below the deck. Peridan joined them, and all three men took a moment to study Ram, who was so consumed by his efforts that he did not even see them there until Peridan cleared his throat, and Corin spoke.

"Ram?"

Ram twitched, surprised, and looked up. "Oh— I'm sorry, Uncle, I . . . I was working on something."

"I see." Corin nodded. "Might we enquire . . ?"

But before Ram could answer, a shout came from the beach below. "Hello, the ship!" somebody called, and anguished regret flashed across the faces of all three older men. Ram, at seeing their pain, ducked his head, embarrassed to observe it yet wishing that he might share it.

"It's time, then," Peridan said, and Corin nodded.

"Right. Well, then . . . coming, Ram? I wouldn't want to tell your mother I left you here when they set fire to it; she'd be almost certain to scold."

"Almost certain," Ram nodded, getting to his feet. With a studiedly casual gesture, he scrunched the paper up in his hand, tucking it back into his doublet. The stub of charcoal he left behind on the deck; if Sareena wanted more whiskers, she was going to have to figure out how to acquire them for herself.

He followed the older three men across the deck to the iron rungs. All of them paused while the oldest three took one last look around them at the ship. Ram, wanting to do something appropriate, looked past the swan's head, across the water to the coming dawn.

"Well, then," Kerron said at last, "let's away."

They climbed down the side of the ship in silence, just as they had boarded. On the beach they were met by the small party with torches, and quiet greetings were exchanged.

"Will your Highness be staying to watch?" one man asked. Corin shook his head.

"Not I . . . gentlemen?"

But they all said no.

"Home, then?" Corin wondered. "Or, at least; to our home?" nodding toward Ram. "For," addressing the Narnian lords, "I've a mind to offer you both breakfast, sirs; I believe this night more than warrants it."

This was agreed upon as well, and together the four set off across the beach, back into the woods. Only as they reached the treeline did it occur to Corin to finish the question he had been about to ask back on the ship.

"Ram! What was it that you were working on, then?"

Ram shifted a little awkwardly, and murmured that oh, it didn't really matter, now; just something to pass the time. Thankfully his uncle seemed to accept this explanation. Ram was not afraid to explain his sketch, exactly, but he sensed that this was the wrong time to do so. The men in his company were still mourning the ship that was about to be lost; he didn't really feel right telling them he had been sketching plans for a whole new ship.

He would keep the paper to himself, he decided. Maybe he would store it in the castle archives; Corin never went into the archives, if he could help it, so he'd never find it there. And then, Ram thought, giving in to a little daydream of his own, maybe some day in the future he or his son or grandson or perhaps even some fellow who was unrelated and altogether unknown . . . perhaps one of them would be in need of a ship, and could build the one he had envisioned as he sat in the prow of the Splendour Hyaline. He could almost see it come to life in his mind's eye, a bright and beautiful splash of colour on the crest of a surging wave, the golden head of the dragon curving proudly out over the water.

Today, he decided, was a day best spent mourning and remembering by those who were able to do so. Tomorrow there would be time enough to imagine a ship that would race across the Eastern Sea, skimming the seafoam and cleaving the waves as it sped toward the horizon to tread the golden path of the dawn.

O0O0O0O

A.N.: This was inspired by and very (very) loosely based upon the Stan Rogers song of the same name; yes, I suppose it was a bit melancholy, but I hope it ended with a bit of brightness. I don't know . . . I am just in that mood.

Narnia is not mine, nor ever will it be, more's the pity. I am inordinately fond of it, certainly, but CS Lewis thought of it first!