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THE JOURNEY up the wending canyon of the Great river never seems to end. Eventually, the young Queen Lucy runs out of stories and settles instead on watching the scenery slowly pass by, much like her older sister. Having run out of arrows to make, I find myself in the same situation. With nothing but the wind and the melodic sounds of the oars dipping in and out of the river, I quickly grow restless. Especially knowing I can turn into a hawk and reach Dancing Lawn in under two hours.
When I can't stand the biting urge any longer, I look over my shoulder and steal a glance at Edmund Pevensie.
From the very back of the boat, the dark-haired boy grins crookedly at me, one hand on the rudder, like he's been waiting for me to turn around. I return the smile before my gaze falls on King Peter, who's turned his head to follow Edmund's gaze with a knowing smile. I consider offering to take over rowing, as he must be quite drained by now, but fear of offending the High King stops me from saying anything. Then Lucy interrupts my thoughts. And something about her voice makes my heart ache.
"They're so still."
When I look over, the expression on her face is both wistful and downcast.
Trumpkin looks up, following her line of sight. "They're trees," he replies drily. "What'd you expect?"
Lucy doesn't look away from them: lining the tops of the canyon. "They used to dance."
The three other Pevensie siblings share her grief in silence. Stories I read of the dancing, sentient trees ripple through my mind, causing me to feel nostalgic for a time I never experienced.
The dwarf sighs. "After the Telmarines invaded..." he shakes his head, a grim frown set on his face. "They retreated so deep into themselves that they haven't been heard from since."
She frowns, sadness shining in her eyes when she looks between me, Susan and Trumpkin. "I don't understand," she says with hushed urgency. "How could Aslan have let this happen?"
"Aslan?" Trumpkin repeats in disbelief. "I thought he abandoned us when you lot did."
I shoot him a look of utter bewilderment. How can he possibly accuse them of such a thing? The dwarf is completely unconcerned by my criticizing stare.
"We didn't mean to leave, you know," Peter points out, and I'm surprised to hear a note of despair in his voice.
The dwarf contemplates his words but doesn't appear any less resentful. "Makes no difference now," he mutters, "does it?"
"Get us to the Narnians," Peter says thickly, "and it will."
The two Queens share a troubled look before Lucy's midnight blue eyes fall on me, nervous that I might mirror Trumpkin's cynicism. In answer, I offer her a reassuring smile and reach my hand out to lay overtop hers on the rowboat's ledge. Suddenly, an idea occurs to me.
