The Social Porcupine

The first draft of "Susan of Narnia" I was first introduced to the world of Narnia when I was about eleven years old, through the BBC movie, " Prince Caspian" . I hated that movie so much. In fact, I don't remember ever hating a movie in such an irrational way before or after the BBC " Prince Caspian". I didn't hate the movie because of the poor quality. Back then, I was the sort of child that liked a movie no matter how poorly made. And today I actually quite like all of BBC's Narnia movies. No, to be fair, my hatred had nothing to do with the movie at all.  I hated the movie because my routine had been broken.  You see, Mom was away visiting a friend and she was rarely away. Dad and my Uncle Caleb were home taking care of my siblings and me, and they were doing a poor job of it. The house was chaos, my brain hurt from watching too many movies, and the food wasn't all that good. To top it all, we ended a horrible day with ...

Every memory laid written in Susan’s lap, a pile of used ink cartridges on the floor near her feet. She’d used nearly every paper she could find. There was only one page left—Susan took that and wrote, with bold strokes: The Chronicles of Narnia. She knew they were poorly written, possibly even boring. They were very factual, like a history book, and not at all like a novel. But maybe she could find someone who would help her make them more interesting. Susan’s compact mirror had laid open on the edge of the chair the entire time she wrote. The glass then wrinkled over itself and she saw Aslan. Susan smiled, feeling complete under his gaze. “Will I ever be able to hug you again?” Susan asked. Aslan’s eyes were warm, His smile, rewarding. “It is not yet your time, daughter of Eve. But it is time for you to leave this cottage and return to London.” “But … ” Susan shivered. “I can’t go back. Not when Carl doesn’t love me as he used to. Oh, Aslan, why does Carl act as if I...

The morning was still cold and dark when Susan arose, dressed, and packed a light bag. She nearly added the rings to her bag, but stopped, pondering them a moment. She no longer needed them—but maybe there was someone else that could find solace in them. So Susan wrapped the cigar box of rings with brown paper and wrote an address on it. She scribbled a note for the maid and placed it in the kitchen, and then Susan left her home for the damp streets. The Pevensies owned a car, but Susan had never driven it, and she wasn’t about to try and learn to do so now. The railway was not a far distance away, and besides, it would feel good to breathe fresh air. The walk pinkened her cheeks, and the sun slowly came out to warm the sky. The post office was on the way, so Susan stopped there first and paid for her parcel to be sent before hurrying on to the the railway. Maybe she was going insane, as Carl believed. Her entire growing up years, she’d fought to be rational, but what if t...

“How came you to hear of that?” Susan hissed, looking all about her lest anyone overhear either of them. Mr and Mrs Bryant were too far away, both of them talking to an older man. Carl stood in the midst of a group of friends, holding a glass high as if making a flippant toast. Had Carl sent Francis to test her? But, no. Carl wouldn’t want to involve another person. He’d question Susan himself or send her away. That was the sort of man Carl was. Francis, too, searched the people around them before answering. Then whispering, Francis said, “A long while ago I heard Ji—my sister talking with your sib—some friends. I was only sneaking up on them to play a prank, but then I found myself listening.” Susan raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard that eavesdropping is a very naughty habit?” Francis laughed loudly, causing a few people close to them to turn and smile. “That’s only true if you’re caught—I’ve never been caught at any of my antics.” Somehow his laughter eased Susan’s...

It was too cold to be outside, but Susan needed the fresh air, so, carrying everything she had of Narnia (the box of rings and the compact mirror), Susan took a blanket and sat in the sunniest chair. To be alone and not alone at once—that was what she needed. A break from therapists, church gossips, and the Bryants (even Carl) while surrounded by something alive that could not harm her or condemn her. The entire month of February ate away at Susan. She was not getting better, and everything was only worse. The therapist was frustrated with Susan because she would hardly talk, and, when asked how she was doing, Susan would say, “I am coping.” The woman was not satisfied with such vague words, but if Susan would actually tell the truth, the therapist would look at Susan as if she were pitiful. No one was supposed to know about the therapist, but whenever Susan went out (which was only when the Bryants took her to church or demanded she go to a party with Carl), she heard the...

On the day of the funeral, eight caskets were lowered into the church cemetery—Eustace’s parents had their son cremated and his ashes put in a jar so that they could always keep him close by. Susan hardly cried that day, and if she had, her eyes may have been frozen shut, for the day was miserably cold. Many people came to give Susan their condolences, but she remembered none of their faces. She only heard the buzz of their words. An middle-aged woman whispered loudly to a group of her friends as if Susan were not just a few feet away. “Quite strange, they say, the whole ordeal.” “How so?” The others asked curiously. “Well, they say it wasn’t a very bad crash. The one car that came loose from the train was all there was—and the only people to be hurt were those connected to the Pevensie family. Everyone else on board had hardly a scratch.” “You don’t say? Not even a broken bone? It’s a miracle, it is.” “It’s true. And they say that, though the young Susan is left entir...

Susan fell backward away from the fevered children as doctors rushed toward Jill and Eustace. “Please, give us space to work or leave the room,” a doctor snapped at the parents. Everyone else moved out of the way. “What did my Jill say?” asked Mrs Pole. “Was she asking for water?” “I don’t think she said anything, dear,” Mr Pole said. “She was just … murmuring.” Susan had plainly heard Jill say Aslan, and still the word rang loud in her mind, as if a taunt toward Susan. Jill believed even as she neared death, and yet Susan would not pray. She clung to Carl and he pulled her closer. Susan couldn’t help but look to Francis—the poor man was as white as the children, maybe whiter. “She said Aslan,” Francis whispered to himself so that only Susan heard, and only because she had been looking directly at him. “Aslan,” Francis whispered again, as if testing the name on his tongue to find out what it might mean. Susan turned away from Francis and shook in Carl’s arms. Carl ...

Susan didn’t want food—it seemed so pointless to eat when death weighed on the world all around her. But Carl wasn’t so inclined, and he made certain she ate a little before they went on to the hospital. Eustace Scrubb lay very still in a narrow bed. Jill Pole was in another bed just a few feet away from Eustace. Both children were hardly visible through all their bandages and blankets. They were hardly sixteen—too young to be so still. Her aunt Alberta stood next to Eustace. Alberta clung to Eustace’s hand. Jill’s mother was likewise by her daughter’s bed. The children’s fathers, with Francis, sat on a hard bench. None of them looked as if they had slept in days. Susan’s guilt intensified. She rushed into the room, leaving Carl gaping in the doorway, and went straight to her aunt. “Aunt Alberta, tell me, how is he?” But as Susan looked closer at Eustace, she wished she’d never asked. The boy was so pale and his skin stretched tightly over his bones. Was he even breathin...