The four friends sat in the pale moonlight beside a flickering fire. The youngest of them was just short of thirty, the others led by four or five. They had long met in this clearing by the marshes, surrounded on all sides by woods. As the darkness grew heavier, their thoughts turned inward to the Marsh Fiend of Vetiver and Thyme. She travelled alone like a ghost far from home luring travelers to her side. And once they had seen her and gazed quietly at her while she smiled her forlorn smile.
“Clumsy, you are,” the old Tutor said, looking at the woman before him.
She bowed down her head like a wounded deer, the shame creeping up her neck
Like a phantom of heat engulfing her head until she sank down before him.
There before them lay the shattered remains of the crystal goblet of Cardis.
“If Narnia’s so religious, how come you can’t find any churches there?” a writer asks.
It’s a reasonable question. Given the Christian framework of Narnia, shouldn’t there be a church, or at the very least a praying figure or a hymn singer or two? And no doubt you’re sitting expectantly at the edge of your ergonomic chair for my response. Right?