Solitude - Lewis: Prince Caspian

I have always disliked Prince Caspian. It's the second-published book (1951) in the Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis.

It's a bit of a jumbled slog, taking breaks from the main narrative for a four (4!) chapter flashback, and then breaking off again near the end from the main narrative to catch us up on what's been happening to the characters we haven't seen for three chapters.

It's a slow read, too. The early chapters evoke a feeling of listlessness--the four children are pulled from the train depot by magic that really doesn't feel very magical, then wander through woods with hot, heavy feet, not sure where they are or where they're going. They find Cair Paravel, their former castle of splendor, an abandoned ruin. They hear the story of Caspian's failing rebellion. They make a time-consuming false start. The early chapters feel a bit like a Missouri summer day at a hundred percent humidity--it's laborious just to walk.

I think Lewis intended to evoke this laborious feeling. In chronological order, his books roughly correspond to the redemption-history of the Bible, from Creation and Fall (The Magician's Nephew) to Salvation (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe) to the Remade Heaven and Earth (The Last Battle), with recapitulations sprinkled throughout. In The Horse and His Boy, Prince Caspian and The Silver Chair, Lewis deals primarily with what the Christian life is like between Jesus' first and second comings. (I would argue that The Voyage of the Dawn Treader doesn't fit in a redemption-history trajectory, but rather encompasses redemption-history within itself.)

"Oh, Trees, wake, wake, wake. Don't you remember it? Don't you remember me?"

The listlessness of Prince Caspian mimics seasons of the Christian life, seasons in which God is difficult to see (or have we forgotten what He looks like?), in which nature itself seems to have forgotten His voice, and in which we may begin to think He is absent or asleep. To pick up my theme of solitude, the four children find themselves alone in a strange old land. Caspian finds himself alone among the Old Narnians. The children are without guidance. Caspian's hope dwindles. Nature is sleeping a drugged sleep--it's not resting, but it has withdrawn so far from cruelty that is has forgotten even the voice of an old friend like Lucy.

Lewis talks about how we feel in these tiresome seasons of loneliness. We may grieve, remembering how things were and will never be again. Even when Lucy does see Aslan, He's different than last she saw Him--He's larger, and He'll never be smaller again. Her reaction is like mine in those seasons: "And now everything is going to be horrid." We may be impatient, even irritable; we know how easy things can be when God chooses to make them so, yet He sometimes chooses not to! As Lucy says, "I thought you'd come roaring in and frighten all the enemies away—like last time."

How should we walk in these times when we're not even sure where we're heading, when our feet are hot and heavy, and when we walk alone?

Lewis's story offers an exhortation of comfort. Take heart: Aslan is on the move even when you cannot see Him. Be patient, but not with the patience of resignation: dare to hope in Him. Aslan's work culminates in celebration. Work with Him, even if it may be a while before you celebrate with Him. Dare to obey as much as He reveals to you--yes, even if you're the only one who hears Him.

That points to another source of solitude that Lewis talks about in this story: the solitude of being the only one who sees God ahead on the path. Oswald Chambers says, "Beware of the inclination to dictate to God as to what you will allow to happen if you obey Him," and that's the point of this passage from Prince Caspian:

"You mean," said Lucy rather faintly, "that it would have turned out all right—somehow? But how? Please, Aslan! Am I not to know?"

"To know what would have happened, child?" said Aslan. "No. Nobody is ever told that."

The road of solitude is sometimes (not always) lonely, and Lewis reminds us that lonely solitude--tiresome as it is--is part of the Christian life between Jesus' first and second comings. But take heart: He has overcome the world, even the tiresome parts. Lewis sneaks some eschatology into Prince Caspian as Narnia is reborn in response to Aslan's roar. His world will remember His voice.

Low down in the east, Aravir, the morning star of Narnia, gleamed like a little moon. Aslan, who seemed larger than before, lifted his head, shook his mane and roared.

The sound, deep and throbbing at first like an organ beginning on a low note, rose and became louder, and then far louder again, till the earth and air were shaking with it. It rose up from that hill and floated across all Narnia. Down in Miraz's camp men woke, stared palely in one another's faces, and grasped their weapons. Down below that in the Great River, now at its coldest hour, the heads and shoulders of the nymphs, and the great weedy-bearded head of the river-god, rose from the water. Beyond it, in every field and wood, the alert ears of rabbits rose from their holes, the sleepy heads of birds came out from under wings, owls hooted, vixens barked, hedgehogs grunted, the trees stirred. In towns and villages mothers pressed babies close to their breasts, staring with wild eyes, dogs whimpered, and men leaped up groping for lights. Far away on the northern frontier the mountain giants peered from the dark gateways of their castles.

What Lucy and Susan saw was a dark something coming to them from almost every direction across the hills. It looked first like a black mist creeping on the ground, then like the stormy waves of a black sea rising higher and higher as it came on, and then, at last, like what it was—woods on the move. All the trees of the world appeared to be rushing towards Aslan. But as they drew nearer they looked less like trees, and when the whole crowd, bowing and curtsying and waving thin long arms to Aslan, were all around Lucy, she saw that it was a crowd of human shapes. Pale birch-girls were tossing their heads, willow-women pushed back their hair from their brooding faces to gaze on Aslan, the queenly beeches stood still and adored him, shaggy oak-men, lean and melancholy elms, shock-headed hollies (dark themselves, but their wives all bright with berries) and gay rowans, all bowed and rose again, shouting, "Aslan, Aslan!" in their various husky or creaking or wave-like voices.