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| "Mag, an Outskirts girl...." |
Melanie met Martan's sincere face with a serious one.
"There are the Outskirts, Milord," she said in a
low voice.
Martan's brow furrowed in confusion, "The Outskirts?
What about them?"
Melanie was shocked, "Has Your Lordship ever seen
them?"
"No; Father never spoke of them, and whenever I needed
to leave the City (which was not often), it was always in a closed carriage.
Frankly, I don't see why they should concern me, if they existed during
Father's time and he never did anything for them!"
"But they are under your rule, are they not?"
"Well, yes, I suppose so, but—"
Melanie silenced him by taking his hand. "Then I think
it is time you took stock of your jurisdiction, Lord Martan."
[…]
Martan's mask of composure melted at the stench wafting from
the area, and he gawked askance at the inhabitants of these rampantly
dilapidated holes in the walls. He reluctantly reminded himself that
these—creatures—were just as much "his people" as the more affluent
citizens to which he had become accustomed.
[…]
As the driver threaded his way down side streets and back
toward the castle, Melanie looked to Martan. The young man was deeply impacted
by what he saw.
"Those," he croaked, his voice so heavy with
emotion that it was barely a whisper, "those are my people . . ."
"They are, Milord," Melanie replied gravely.
"But why . . . how is it that the Outskirts have fallen
into such degradation? Why do those people not choose to take better care of
themselves?"
"Because you give them no reason to," Melanie said
suddenly.
Martan cast an arrogant glance in her direction. "I?
You are blaming me for that? I had nothing to do with it!"
"Tell me, Lord Martan, how did you merit your position?
What did you do to earn that lordship?"
"Well, nothing; I came to it by birth-right."
"If you came to it by birth-right then you are not
required to do anything to maintain it, because it is naturally yours, correct?"
"Yes; Melanie, I wish you would tell me—"
"In a moment, Milord. If you came into the position by
birth, and are not required to do anything beyond that which pleases you, why
then do you not?"
"Melanie, we agreed to follow Aslan's will, to glorify
him in our rule."
"Why is it your desire to please Aslan?"
Martan, thoroughly frustrated, sighed, "It is out of
gratitude to his gifts to me and his love and forgiveness! Now will you explain
yourself, instead of interrogating me with strange questions?"
Melanie smiled, "Yes: you asked a while earlier why the
Outskirters have never bettered their position, and I told you they had no
reason to do so. Consider: you, like your father and your grandfather and every
other Lord of Nast, have ruled for yourself, and done things for your own
benefit." She looked out the window. "The Outskirters know nothing of
Aslan's love, nor how he can change a life and make things new. They know of no
power in the world that can ever change them, nor people's perception of
them."
Something in Melanie's words pierced deep into Martan's
heart. "They must be told!" he said.
Melanie nodded, "Yes, but how would it be if they were
shown an example of Aslan's love, as well as told?"
Martan whirled away from the window, "Milady, you have
given me an idea! Page!"
A pageboy appeared at his Lord's call.
"Gather me the delegations, as well as the craftsmen
and women of the town. Tell them to assemble in the square, as I have an
important announcement to make!"
"What are you going to do, Martan?" Melanie asked.
"I am going to aid the Outskirts, myself if I have to!
They will see Aslan's love!" he grabbed Melanie's hand, his eyes alight,
"Melanie, we will rebuild the Outskirts!"
[…]
Mag, an Outskirts girl, pulled the filthy rag she used for a
shawl closer around her. The biting wind still blew upon her bones, as if she
had nothing on her skeletal frame (which was nearly true). She picked her way
between garbage piles to the hovel she shared with her aunt.
A steady scraping noise would have hardly attracted her
attention, if Mag hadn't caught sight of the person making it: a farmer's wife.
She was (Mag thought) richly adorned in a long, flannel dress and a woolen
shawl, thick and soft. To the wonderment of the bare-footed, wide-eyed girl,
this angelic, queenly woman was actually sweeping the streets of the Outskirts!
Mag stood and watched as the good woman—one who usually
passed through these streets without a second glance—swept all the much and
filth into wheel-barrow pushed by none other than her husband. The afternoon
sun drove away the morning mists as the farmer's wife looked straight at Mag
and smiled! Mag hesitated and tried to shrink back into the hovel, but the
farmer's wife came near her, still smiling. The fearful girl saw more movement,
and saw that the streets were fairly crawling with farmers and townsfolk; what
were they doing? Why were they here? Mag had never done anything wrong . . .
she hoped.
The farmer's wife drew her hands up; Mag was sure this lady
would strike her, but no! Instead, the beautiful farmer's wife undid the
gorgeous brooch that fastened her thick shawl, and gently pulled the shawl
around Mag's own thin shoulders! The girl gasped as warmth such as she had
never known seeped all the way through her much faster than the cold ever had.
"Mag?" Her aunt's creaky voice interrupted the
wondrous moment from within the hovel, "What are ye doin', chile?"
The farmer's wife peered into the door and asked Mag,
"Is it your mother?"
Mag could not speak, for fear the dream would be over, and
the farmer's wife and her shawl would disappear into the mists; she only shook
her head.
"Your grandmother?"
No, again.
"Your aunt?"
Mag nodded.
"May I go in to her?"
Mag was startled. No one, whether from the town or the
outlying farms, ever went into an Outskirts home!
"Mag! Who's thar wi' ye?" Mag's aunt demanded.
The farmer's wife still waited for an answer from Mag. The
little girl, emboldened by the warmth encompassing her, nodded again and led
the miracle woman into the place she called home.
The farmer's wife surveyed in pity the small room that was
home for the little girl and her glassy-eyed, invalid aunt. The only difference
between inside the hovel and outside it was the four walls around them and the
roof over their heads. The garbage, the stench; it was all the same.
Mag smiled obliviously as she climbed onto her aunt's lap
and gave her the shawl the same way the farmer's wife had.
"Lawd a' mercy!" Mag's aunt gasped when she felt
the fine wool about her shoulders. "Whar did ye git that?"
The farmer's wife smiled, "I bring you greetings from
Aslan."
Something in that name thrilled little Mag and emboldened
her to speak.
"Please," she said in her delicate little voice,
"who is Aslan?"
[…]
By the time Telmar approached winter, every citizen in Nast
had a secure place to live. Not an ounce of edible produce remained above
ground, but the unripe was pulled with the ripe, to mature safely underground
where the cold would not spoil them. The wool had long since been made into
many warm blankets, or yarn and knit onto many warm clothes to share.
Melanie, from the highest window in the castle, gazed
anxiously at the dark, menacing clouds building just beyond the mountain passes
that marked the edges of Venna to the north, and Puriva to the south. She knew
Nast was protected for the most part, on account of its location within a
small, flat, low, bowl-like valley between these two provinces.
Still, by the looks of the black clouds amassing on the horizon,
Melanie wondered how much protection even those mountains would afford against
a blizzard.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
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