Well, but this time it's official.
So I wrote another fanfic. I'll probably be editing it occasionally, since this is sort of just a first draft. It's called "The Other Friend".
I could still have crossed the deck of that ship with my eyes shut—climbed down the hatch ladder even as the ship tossed in the middle of a wild storm—jumped along the rowers’ benches below deck without losing my balance once. And I often did, in my mind. The ship was always in my mind. No one believed me, of course, when I told them I’d designed a ship before: a fully sea-worthy ship with a bright golden prow, a ship which had sailed on waters they had never seen, a ship whose crew were mostly fauns and dwarves. A ship which was built for a king. I was far too young to have done a thing like that, they said. So I finally stopped telling them. How could I prove to them that I was really decades older than I appeared?
And so I became closed and shy, a socially awkward thirteen-year-old: too old in my mind to enjoy the foolish company of other children; too young in my body to join the adults in their conversation; and not interested in either. My family was no help, either. “You’ll never amount to anything,” my mother often told me, “unless you forget all this nonsense about that imaginary ship.” But how could I? There remained foremost in my mind the layout of my ship, every plank and spar, every line of the hull, every detail of carving in the cabins. I could have drawn again the plans for the ship, exactly as I had forty-eight years ago—or was it only a month ago?—and I knew that in a marble chest in the underground chambers of the castle lay the original plans.
There, too, I walked often. Though I had not designed it as I had the ship, I yet knew nearly every little detail about the castle. Sixteen steps down from the banquet hall to the treasure chamber; five steps up from the main hall to the balcony; and 302 narrow, dizzying steps to the top of the high tower; all of them I climbed often in my dreams. And I recalled how at each dawn the dazzling golden city would meet the sun: crowning the cliff, shining like a little sun itself, smaller but just as bright.
And the hunts, and the quests, and the midnight dances with the fauns in the woods! If I closed my eyes, the images and songs would instantly rush into my mind, and a knife of homesickness would twist inside me. At times it hurt so much I would become ill and have to spend days in bed, and I would lie on my back as my mind walked the old paths and lingered in the old haunts I knew so well. It was literally killing me. I hid myself away in the upstairs bedroom of my family’s large country house, gathering around me any little thing that reminded me of home: books on mythology, prints of old medieval tapestries, little carved wooden dragons, and various other trinkets. Soon my parents and older sister refused to come into that room any more, and eventually they avoided even talking to me.
Years passed: five years, yet the memories remained as strong as ever. I could not get over the fact that no one else from our world had ever been there, but it seemed it was so, for still no one believed me. My family still kept distant from me, and when they spoke to me, their tone was patronizing. They never told me, but I’m sure they thought I had gone quite mad.
Often at nights I would leave my window open and lie awake listening for the sound of music coming from outside, but it never came. In the morning I would go deep into the woods and search for a trodden-down ring of faun tracks, or heavy little boot prints that might show that dwarves had been there. Again and again I tried in vain to wake the trees. On weekends I would go to the seaside and look out to the east, straining my eyes for a glimpse of a ship on the horizon…maybe my ship. And at nearly all times I fingered the one thing that I had from home: a little ring, now tarnished from constant handling, set with tiny red gems. The king had given it to me as part of the payment for the ship: the ship I had made for him when his own was destroyed by the dragon he had gone to fight. I could live the scene again perfectly in my mind, remembering the exact place where he had given the ring to me, the exact words he had said. I never wore the ring on my hand, though. It was too dear to me for it to be asked about and ridiculed by others. So I kept it in my pocket, or on a chain around my neck where it lay against my heart reminding me painfully of home.
And then it was gone. I don’t know how I lost it, or where, and logic tells me it probably now lies somewhere in the woods; yet I wonder sometimes if it perhaps left for home again on its own. But it was gone. I was so distraught at the loss that I again fell ill and was unable to leave my room for ten days. My mother reluctantly would come to my room during the day, but otherwise I saw no one. At last the morning came when I was at last well enough to get up again…and I began to draw.
Of course, all that I drew were thing from home. I drew the rivers and streams; I drew the trees, the animals, the people; I drew the rooms of the castle. My family, thinking that my art might make me “normal” again, was very supportive of my work, and encouraged me to try painting as well. I did, and picture after picture appeared on my wall. They were all of places I knew and loved, and part of the pain left me as I finished each one.
The last painting I did was one of my ship. I was twenty-two, and still believed to be queer in the head. My parents had both died that year, and my sister was to inherit the house with her family. She had grudgingly offered to let me continue living upstairs, but I felt I should never really be content there, and I also felt a strong urge to be on the sea again. I had considered joining the crew of a ship somewhere, and I doubted that in any case I’d ever be coming back to this house. I knew I wouldn’t be able to bring along any of my paintings, of course—they were too large—but I still wanted to finish this one.
I put the ship under a bright sky, running up a clear wave, just as I remembered her. I made sure every little thing was in place, every bit of detail was on the golden dragon’s-head prow and the purple sail, every rope was fastened where it should be. The painting took longer than most of the others had, but I wanted it to be perfect.
I was quite pleased with the picture when it was finished, and when I stood back and looked at it, the ship seemed as if she was actually moving, rushing towards me. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of the paint seemed for a moment to change to the smell of the sea, and the rustling of leaves outside the open window sounded like the rushing of waves. I thought, too, that I heard the cry of gulls, far, far off.
I opened my eyes. I carefully packed away all my art supplies, and blew gently on the painting to dry the last few light brushstrokes. I draped a sheet over the easel to keep the dust off the canvas, and looked around once more at all the pictures hung on the walls. I smiled and, picking up the bag I had packed that morning, left the room and closed the door, wondering if perhaps someday someone would see the paintings and know them. For I still could not shake the feeling that at least one other person had seen my home, too.
When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my sister was there.
“Are you sure you won’t stay, Frank?” she asked; only out of politeness, I could tell.
“Yes, I’m sure.” I thought I heard her give a little sigh as if of relief. “And I say,” I added, “you won’t take anything out of my room while I’m gone, will you?”
“I suppose not. Why?”
“I should just prefer it. In case I ever came back, I’d like everything to be how it was.”
She shrugged. “All right.”
“And if you ever find the ring I lost, could you put it in my room on the dresser?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
“If—if I don’t see you again, then you can clean out my room, but I’d rather nothing be taken out of it as long as…well, as long as I’m alive. That may sound foolish, but—”
“All right, Frank,” she said impatiently.
I sighed. “I suppose this is goodbye, then,” I said.
“I guess so.” She blinked coolly. “Goodbye.”
And so I left, hoping, hoping,
hoping that someone would see…
And know.
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This happened when I was wondering who made the painting in Lucy's room, and why it would have looked Narnian. And then I was like, "Oooooooooooooooooooooh! What if there was another friend of Narnia
who never met the others???????????????????"
