BY HANNAH SKIPPER

It was the kind of Christmas morning that could make a proper Marshwiggle sit up a little straighter, with grim self-satisfaction in their dour personality, as a brisk northeasterly wind swept off the ocean and across the moors, leaving a dusting of sleet across the hilly lichen covered ground where the Narnian frogmen inhabited.

Yet, inside one of those little wigwams, Puddleglum, who was nearing his centurion’s birthday, sat proudly watching his grandchildren solemnly opening their gifts by a roaring fire. Inevitably though, his face turned towards the window where he could just catch a glimpse of the distant spires of Cair Paravel. He knew old King Rilian and his queen were doing the same thing that he was. No doubt, the celebrations at the castle were much more lively than the Marshwiggle tradition, but that was none of his business.

The king was somewhat younger than his elderly advisor but humans didn’t live as long as Marshwiggles, so Puddleglum wouldn’t have wondered if the monarch passed into Aslan’s Country before the snows fell again next year. The strain and cares of his life and position had already begun to show in the last years.

He didn’t doubt, though, that the crown prince would fill the enormous shoes left by his father and grandfather as seamlessly as any human could. He was a good man and Puddleglum was pleased to have been one of his tutors when the prince was a boy. Whatever floods, fires, famines, or invasions Narnia was likely to face during his reign, they’d be met with the stern courage of one who knew he was living between the Lion’s paws.

Then Puddleglum’s thoughts drifted back, over the years, as they often had at holiday times, to remember young Eustace and Jill. He wouldn’t wonder if they were still the same age they were when he’d first met them, given the strange time difference that ran between Narnia and their world, but he hoped they were making the best of things.

Smiling as their faces and voices drifted into his mind again, he sighed and closed his eyes to think. Eustace had been earnest, desiring to do his best at the job Aslan had brought them out of their own world to do, but he was also a studious realist who could get bogged down when things weren’t going according to plan. Through Puddleglum’s quiet tutelage, he had relearned how to patiently expect the Lion to work on their behalf, whether it be a glorious miracle to bail them out of trouble or a gentle nudge to steer them in the right direction.

Jill, the newcomer, was fresh-faced and awestruck when it came to her new surroundings. She had been ready to accept the challenges of their new assignment and confident in their ability to handle anything. That feeling happily carried her a little ways, but when things started to go wrong and the northern nights got cold and dark, her young roots had struggled to hold on. Puddleglum was thankful that she had interacted personally with Aslan before being sent on to Narnia because she, most of all, needed to be watered before she began to grow.

Then there was Rilian, his king and dear friend… Even after all these decades, the Marshwiggle could still stand in awe at how he had been transformed out of the stupor of enchantment, that his own misguided desires had led him towards, into a king who could lead Narnia the way she ought to be.

He still remembered the horrified fury on Green Lady’s face when she realized that her gig was finally up. His feet were still smoldering, from having doused her enchanted fire with their rubbery frog soles, but his face must have been glowing after catching a vision of Aslan standing in that dungeon with them. For, of course, He had been with them the whole time, helping them find their way and giving them strength to take each new step, especially when it was hard, even when their eyes did not behold Him.

Had not Rilian’s shield been restored, from cold black, to bear once again the insignia of the Lion, in bold red color? It was not the absence of the Witch’s magic that had done it, but the presence of the Lion among them.

The key to life was to remember that He is always among them, whether visible or invisible. Or whether he appeared in His true nature, as the great Lion, High King above all Kings and the son of the Emperor-Over-the-Sea, or as an ordinary cat, or some other animal, or even as a helpless baby. He was still the one who had sung the world into being, and destroyed the ancient Witch’s power through His sacrifice on the Stone Table. He was always among them, and each one has access to His power and wisdom, if they would only summon Him with belief.

His vision of Aslan, down there in Underland, had been what gave Puddleglum the courage to say, to her face, all that he had. He wasn’t suicidal, and never had been. And two inexperienced children and a young man still mostly in an enchanted stupor don’t make the best allies in a fight. But he had known, always, that they didn’t fight alone; and whether the Lion meant for them to perish or not, He was with them; and that knowledge was enough for Puddleglum to stomp out the fire and, then, turn and draw his sword.