Narnian Tide

12

The wind off the coast was sharper than I expected, tasting of salt and secrets. Pebbles crunched under my boots as I wandered farther from the old estate, leaving the glow of its windows behind. Inside, Lucy, Edmund, Susan, and Peter sat by the fire, voices weaving a tapestry of stories I had heard a dozen times—tales of talking beasts, silver seas, and a great lion whose roar could shake the world. I’d always smiled and listened, half-believing, half-wondering if they were just fragments of childhood that they refused to let go. But tonight, something about the air felt different. The tide moved with an urgency I couldn’t explain, the horizon a restless blur of dark clouds. I stood on the cliff edge, staring at the place where sky met water, and thought of the king they often spoke of—Caspian, with his brown hair and sea-steady gaze. He was a myth to me, a name in a fireside tale. The wind rose suddenly, sharp enough to steal my breath. Far out at sea, the clouds curled inward, forming a spiral of green and gold light. The ground shifted beneath my feet—wet rock, a misstep—and then I was falling, swallowed by the roar of the storm. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a wooden deck that swayed gently under me. Above, pale sails strained against the wind, and the air was warm with the scent of salt and sun. A figure knelt beside me, his shadow cutting across my vision. “You’re awake,” he said, voice low and steady. “I am Caspian… King of Narnia.” My breath caught. I knew that name. I knew his friends. As I moved, my hand brushed something unexpected in my coat pocket. Surprised, I drew it out—a small silver horn, its surface etched with curling patterns. My eyes widened as Susan’s words returned to me, as clear as if she were standing there: If ever you find yourself in true need, blow this… and the four Kings of old will come to your aid.