There was a little boy, once, held behind stone walls, cold and damp. His room was above the kitchen, and whenever the hearth was used, the floors would heat, and he would smell the food, and the fire, earthy and soft in his nose. He would crawl out of his bed, and lie down on the floor, trying to find out what the kitchen staff was making, which spices they used, which meat, what vegetables. And his wet nurse would sit with him, his hands in hers, old and worn and soft as they were, and he’d tell her all the things he’d smell.
Years later, when the little boy was just a boy, now, and his nephew was born under fireworks and screams, he still remembered her voice, soft and tilted and rough, as if her vocal chords were still new to her, and untrained in her throat. He still remembered how her hair looked when she would put him to sleep, and kiss his forehead, her curls mixing with his, grey and red amongst his black. He still remembered the way she’d sway him, slowly, carefully, as if he was something precious that would break under too much pressure.
“My dear child”, she’d say, quietly, and hold him up into the sunlight creeping through the small windows, kiss his cheeks, one after the other. “Let me tell you a story.” And then she’d lift him on her lap, her fingers intertwined with his, and she’d tell him stories.
Stories about talking Beasts and kings and queens who were but children when they were crowned, about witches and dryads, and naiads and spirits. She’d tell him about the people hidden in the woods and under it, about the grief straining the lands, in her hushed, hoarse voice as a quiet breeze settled in his hair. “There’s old Narnia breathing and surviving all around you, my darling”, she’d say, and run her hands through his curls, tangled and wild as they were each night. And each night, she’d detangle it, softly and carefully. “Tell me a story, sweetheart”, she’d say, and he would repeat her stories back to her, giggling and smiling, and curling into her.
There was a big red maple tree in the courtyard, and when the sun was just right, it filtered through its leaves in warm oranges and yellows and reds, and the little boy would sit at his window and hold his face into the light, closing his eyes. His wet nurse would laugh behind him, softly, and braid his hair as it got longer. And as she laughed, the wind would rustle the tree’s leaves, and change the colour of the light hitting the boy’s face.
*
She loved this boy, with every groaning inch of her tree, and every new leaf growing from it, loved him and his little hands, his hair, his eyes and his voice. She loved the boy she was raising, right under the regent’s eyes and his blood stained hands, she loved this boy who wouldn’t be another Caspian with bark and mud and iron under his fingernails. This boy wouldn’t silence the last of the Talking Beasts, and he wouldn’t look at a Naiad and see only dancing feet and flowing dresses, wouldn’t look at old Narnia and see only land to plow.
She loved this boy, and loved the stories she wove in and around him, taught him his own history in bedtime stories and nursery rhymes. “Let me tell you a story”, she’d say, and run her hands over his own, let him feel all the ridges on her bark, and then she’d tell him what she could still remember, frozen and motionless as she was for most of her life.
She loved this boy, and he loved her, until the regent looked at her with a sneer, and hacked down the beautiful red maple tree in the courtyard, removed the roots with it.
“You’re too old for a wet nurse now”, he told the boy as she crumbled to soil and sighed a last gust of wind into his room.
_______________________
If you enjoy my writing, consider buying me a coffee <3
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Top Posts Tagged with #the second excursion | Tumlook
