Okay, so first things first: The following reflection is a cheating two-fer. Namely, I wrote (most of) this as an example for the current writing contest, "Always Winter, Never Christmas" (
http://www.thelionscall.com/2017/07/17/ ... ontest-90/); and I reeeeeeeally encourage entries to the contest if one of your reflections happens to fit or if you have an idea for the contest that also doubles as a reflection!
Chapter 1:
Something I noticed this time around are all the little details that may or may not mean anything at any given time. The maids' names, the first few rooms being nothing more than spare bedrooms, the dead fly on the windowsill. Also kind of thought it curious to to think about the things in these (at least seemingly) unused rooms, like the massive books (does the professor read them?), the suit of armour (personally, I'd want to see that thing every day!), and a wardrobe full of fur coats (why not have them stashed somewhere more accessible?). I imagine they're great furnishings during those tours and perhaps there are even little tidbits about how the suit of armour is historically related to the room it's in or such-like, but one has to wonder....
Anyway, to my main reflection. So the thing that sparked this (not particularly stellar example of writing) was the question: What is in Tumnus' packages and where did he get them from? And then it snowballed into something different, as my writing tends to do.
Mother was not doing well. Fifteen years of straight winter had taken its toll on her: she was near-bedridden most days and half-delirious more often than not. Tumnus worried for her. She was not gone, not yet, and he had to take care of her as best as he knew how. What recourse did he have? Even if Father — no. It was no good thinking about Father now. What was done was done. Mother could not live on hours of knitting and dozens of flute-songs. She needed these precious packages of food.
Tumnus shivered in the cold. Father was not here. Mother need not know. Mother may not even notice. Much as he wanted her to recover, this much worked in his favour: Mother would not suffer a broken heart over his broken promises.
At last, he reached home and thawed his fingers over the crackling fire. “It’s cold out there today, Mother,” he said with forced cheerfulness. She didn’t respond, but he hadn’t expected her to: she hadn’t spoken in such a long time. Keeping up a stream of chatter for the both of them, Tumnus prepared lunch: tea, bread and butter, a slice of ham, and, from the new provisions, a handful of dried cranberries. “Here we are, Mother,” he announced as he approached her bed with the tray.
Mother turned her eyes from the fire to smile at him. Her hands pushed something — a package — toward him. On top, in neat and careful letters, were written the words “Merry Christmas”. Tumnus’ heart froze. Ill as she was, Mother had remembered Christmas. And after what he had done — what was he to do? He fought the urge to check over his shoulder for the Secret Police as if he expected them to pounce on them right that instant. Instead, he set down the tray and unwrapped the paper. The scarf inside was long and bright red, redder than holly. “It’s lovely, Mother. Thank you.” He wrapped it around his neck. “And it’s warm too!”
Mother smiled again and they tucked into their lunch. Tumnus relaxed when Mother did not question the new fare. However, when they had finished and he began to clear the dishes, he noticed that she had not touched the cranberries. He bit his lip without meaning to. So she knew after all. She knew of his betrayal. She knew he had gone to the White Witch. Tears sprang to his eyes and shame filled his heart. Mother’s hand cupped his cheek and wiped at one of his tears. When he finally met her gaze, he saw unshed tears in her own eyes. But behind those tears, beyond the spark of rebellion in the face of endless winter, he saw the one truth he had always known: “I love you.”
Years after Mother had passed on, Tumnus still made his fortnightly excursions to collect his pay. He still felt a twinge of guilt every time he went, but he took comfort in that he had not actually performed any service. Surely that much warranted the reward of the little of Mother's loving embrace that lived on in the red muffler. He was still thinking of her when, all of a sudden, he jumped and dropped his packages. "Good gracious me!" he exclaimed, for there, standing before him, was what appeared to be the beginnings of his first assignment: a Human.
Mother, Father, forgive me.
Chapter 2:
Okay, so the first things I took note of were the bits and pieces of Lucy and Tumnus' first conversation that were retained - sometimes even word-for-word - by the 2005 film. Just made me happy, you know?
Has anyone else wondered about this title on Tumnus' shelf:
Men, Monks, and Gamekeepers; a Study in Popular Legends? Specifically, the bit about monks? Nowhere in the books are monks mentioned. Except perhaps the Hermit of the Southern March? He seems kinda monk-like. Maybe Silenus too? The illustration of him looks similar to a monk; and a cursory look at Wikipedia mentions that he was a tutor of Bacchus (and yet also a follower of the latter).
The thing that stuck out to me the most, though, was Tumnus' reaction to Lucy saying that she ought to go home. Maybe it has to do with the little ficlet thingy I wrote above, but I think I empathized with his meltdown more than I ever had. (My lesser empathy in times past being, I think, due to his rather exaggerated crying. I'm just saying, I've shed a good many tears in a single sitting before, but never enough to form a puddle on the floor with the tears wrung out of a hanky.) Tumnus is the very picture of remorse and despair. Even after admitting that he's doing something terrible ("You are the child."), he seems to have no hope but to do the Witch's bidding ("And if I don't, [insert laundry list of the tortures and possible death that await him]." Thankfully, his heart is soft enough to help Lucy get back home anyway, despite the consequences.
(They're a bit bigger on the computer than they were in my sketchbook.)
