Ok, maybe
the 'More to come...' can wait. This story (among other things) is burning in my
soul tonight and it needs to get out of my finger-ends. It's a small picture of
the way my story is unfolding, that's
starting to be unearthed by the Voice.
And
being very tired and having nothing inside
him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks...It
was pitch dark and he could see nothing.
And the Thing (or Person) was going so quietly that he could hardly hear any
footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed
to breathe on a very large scale...
At
last he could bear it no longer. “Who
are you?” he said, scarcely above a whisper.
“One who
has waited long for you to speak,’ said the Thing. Its voice was not loud,
but very large and deep...
“Oh, please—please
do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in
the whole world!” Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand
and face. “There,” it said, “that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows.” Shasta was a
little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real
father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions
and forced to swim for their lives; and
of all their dangers in Tashbaan and
about his night among the tombs and
how the beasts howled at him out of the desert. And he told about the heat
and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their goal when
another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was
since he had had anything to eat.
“I do not call you unfortunate,” said
the Large Voice. “Don’t you think it was bad luck for me to meet so many lions?”
said Shasta. “There was only one lion,” said the Voice. “What on earth do you
mean? I’ve just told you there were at least two the first night, and…” “There
was only one; but he was swift of foot.” “How do you know?”
“I was
the lion.”
And as Shasta gaped with
open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced
you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of
the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was
the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that
you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who
pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death, so that it came to shore
where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
“Then
it was you who wounded Aravis?”
“It
was I.”
“But what for?”
“Child,”
said the Voice, “I am telling you your story, not hers.”
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy)
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