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appendix to 'The Letters and Conversations of a King of Archenland'
An appendix to The Letters and Conversations of a King of Archenland. An entry in Cor's journal that expands on his letter to Lune. Rated G.
Wren's grandmother jokes that he is the only Archenlander in a family of Narnians. He was born in Archenland, not long after his family resettled there, and it was the first home he knew. Narnia, to Wren, existed in other people's memories.
There are talking bears who live in Ettinsmoor, and gryphons in Calormen who cultivate a mythology of being Tash's descendants. Not everyone who left Narnia returned when Jadis was defeated. Wren said he doesn't blame them, especially when people like his parents think them odd for their choice. Wren said if all lands are Aslan's lands, then what does it matter which land you live in? When he was a kid, he and his friends used to sneak off to the border and throw stones at the shadows of the Narnian woods, cursing the White Witch and demanding she give them back their homeland, their country which is their right. They'd yell until their throats were hoarse and their hearts swelled with patriotism. Wren said it's funny, how when he found out that they were actually going back to Narnia, he had to remind himself to be ecstatic.
I can’t help but feel somewhat traitorous in feeling both moved and troubled by his loyalties. I have had nothing but blessing upon blessing piled upon me ever since I arrived at Anvard, and yet sometimes I miss the sea, the desert, and the forthrightness of scarcity. I told Wren that my first home is not my current home either, that everyone collects many homes along the way. This new country is not a replacement, but an expansion. Destiny is a poor substitute for familiarity, but the past is not an excuse for fear. These are things no one taught me, things I had to learn myself.
When the rest of his family was busy entertaining Queen Lucy, Wren showed me a jar of dirt. Of course I was confused; he said he had something important to show me. Then Wren explained that his family filled this jar with the dirt from their garden before they fled for the border. The frost was already claiming the land, snow was beginning to fall, and still they couldn't pry Wren's grandmother away until she filled the jar with all they'll ever see of Narnia for who knows how long. "This, and the stories and the shadows in the woods," Wren said. "That was Narnia to me, growing up." I asked him why he doesn't pour the dirt back out now that he's back, and he just gave me a funny look and said that that wasn't the point.
I'm reluctant to admit that Wren's story feels like an answer to a question I haven't dared asked. Calormenes say there's more truth in a story than in a simple fact, but I think that's just an aphorism perpetuated by the guild of storytellers. Funny thing, storytellers. In telling stories about other people, they sometimes lose the stories about themselves.
Wren's grandmother jokes that he is the only Archenlander in a family of Narnians. He was born in Archenland, not long after his family resettled there, and it was the first home he knew. Narnia, to Wren, existed in other people's memories.
There are talking bears who live in Ettinsmoor, and gryphons in Calormen who cultivate a mythology of being Tash's descendants. Not everyone who left Narnia returned when Jadis was defeated. Wren said he doesn't blame them, especially when people like his parents think them odd for their choice. Wren said if all lands are Aslan's lands, then what does it matter which land you live in? When he was a kid, he and his friends used to sneak off to the border and throw stones at the shadows of the Narnian woods, cursing the White Witch and demanding she give them back their homeland, their country which is their right. They'd yell until their throats were hoarse and their hearts swelled with patriotism. Wren said it's funny, how when he found out that they were actually going back to Narnia, he had to remind himself to be ecstatic.
I can’t help but feel somewhat traitorous in feeling both moved and troubled by his loyalties. I have had nothing but blessing upon blessing piled upon me ever since I arrived at Anvard, and yet sometimes I miss the sea, the desert, and the forthrightness of scarcity. I told Wren that my first home is not my current home either, that everyone collects many homes along the way. This new country is not a replacement, but an expansion. Destiny is a poor substitute for familiarity, but the past is not an excuse for fear. These are things no one taught me, things I had to learn myself.
When the rest of his family was busy entertaining Queen Lucy, Wren showed me a jar of dirt. Of course I was confused; he said he had something important to show me. Then Wren explained that his family filled this jar with the dirt from their garden before they fled for the border. The frost was already claiming the land, snow was beginning to fall, and still they couldn't pry Wren's grandmother away until she filled the jar with all they'll ever see of Narnia for who knows how long. "This, and the stories and the shadows in the woods," Wren said. "That was Narnia to me, growing up." I asked him why he doesn't pour the dirt back out now that he's back, and he just gave me a funny look and said that that wasn't the point.
I'm reluctant to admit that Wren's story feels like an answer to a question I haven't dared asked. Calormenes say there's more truth in a story than in a simple fact, but I think that's just an aphorism perpetuated by the guild of storytellers. Funny thing, storytellers. In telling stories about other people, they sometimes lose the stories about themselves.
no subject
BANG, right in the feelings! I love the reality you give to the people who have only ever lived in Narnia and her neighbors.
no subject