The Cat’s Meow

Let me first say that the religious references are absolutely there. No question. If you don’t believe me, just Google C. S. Lewis. Go on. I’ll wait.

See? Very religious man.

Just like I’m 99.9 percent sure that Disney meant for Bambi’s mother to (euphemistically speaking) meet God, I’m also 99.9 percent sure that C. S. Lewis meant for the Lion Aslan to (allegorically speaking) be God.

But does the reader need to realize that to appreciate the books?

C. S. Lewis ensures that Aslan is a powerful presence in all seven Narnia books. He’s often the story catalyst and/or the story conclusion. In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe he sacrifices himself to save Edmund (thus ensuring that the prophecy of the four thrones in Cair Paravel can be fulfilled), he breaks the spell on the stone victims of the Witch (thus ensuring that Peter’s army has the necessary reinforcements), and he kills the Witch (thus ensuring that the Witch is, um, killed). In The Horse and His Boy, he appears as various lions (and once as a cat) to help Shasta and Aravis on their journey. He drives them together, metes out punishment, and then protects them from harm. In The Silver Chair, he instructs Jill Pole on how to find the lost prince. In The Last Battle, he banishes the demon Tash and then calls for the end of the world.

But it’s not just what Aslan does that makes him a strong figure. He has a presence even when he isn’t present. When Mr. Beaver mentions Aslan for the first time in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the Pevensies all have an immediate visceral reaction. “At the name of Aslan each one of the children felt something jump in its inside. Edmund felt a sensation of mysterious horror. Peter felt suddenly brave and adventurous. Susan felt as if some delicious smell or some delightful strain of music had just floated by her. And Lucy got the feeling you have when you wake up in the morning and realize that it is the beginning of the holidays or the beginning of summer.” C. S. Lewis conveys Aslan’s power and importance in the response of every character to him. Even if you have never heard the phrase “king of kings” before, you understand what it means here. You understand what it means for Aslan to be a Lion-with-a-capital-L. You can see Aslan’s awesomeness in both senses of the word purely through the context of the stories. Lewis gives you enough clues that you can be clueless and still get his meaning—you can grasp his concept of God (Lion-with-a-capital-L) without ever realizing he’s actually talking about God.

Decorating Your Evil Lair

But what about characters who aren’t exact parallels to their theological counterparts? How does the clueless reader understand them?

For example, there’s no obvious Satan in the book. We don’t have a fallen angel or cloven-footed red guy. There’s no fire or brimstone. Instead we have snow and ice. We have Jadis, the White Witch, the last Queen of Charn.

If Aslan is God, then it’s not a big leap to say that the White Witch is Satan. But since the first allegory went whoosh over my head and since I wasn’t very good at leaping anyway (seriously, some kids are late walkers, but I was a late jumper—as a toddler, I’d toss my arms in the air, stick out my belly, and shout “jump,” and my feet wouldn’t leave the floor), I missed any Satan/Lucifer/ devil references with the White Witch. I did, though, find her a highly effective villain, even without any awareness of the allegory. In other words, I didn’t need to know that she was a stand-in for Satan in order to appreciate the depths of her villainy.

The Magician’s Nephew tells the backstory of the White Witch. Two humans, Digory (who later becomes the Professor in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe) and his neighbor Polly, find her in an enchanted sleep on a lifeless planet. Digory wakes her, and the Witch recounts how she single-handedly decimated her world, deliberately destroying every single life form on it (except for herself), because she couldn’t be queen.

Yeah, she has a few issues.

In The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, the White Witch shines as a deliciously evil villain. With her magic wand, she turns her enemies into stone statues. Her castle is chock-full of them. We see them with Edmund as he enters the courtyard: “They all looked so strange standing there perfectly life-like and also perfectly still, in the bright cold moonlight, that it was eerie work crossing the courtyard.” Talk about an awesome evil lair. She decorates it with her enemies.

Think too of how chillingly cruel she is in the Stone Table scene. She isn’t content to simply kill Aslan. She orders his mane to be shaved off so that her followers can mock him before he dies. She also has a shiver-worthy final line before she strikes the killing blow: “Understand that you have given me Narnia forever, you have lost your own life and you have not saved his. In that knowledge, despair and die.” Ouch.

The White Witch doesn’t need to be seen as a direct parallel to Satan to be understood as evil. C. S. Lewis is able to establish her as a source of evil through her actions and through others’ reactions to her. In fact, he sets her up as the Bad Guy before we even meet her by showing us Faun Tumnus’s fear of her.

Dear Faun Tumnus! This nervous, noble, sweet Faun is one of the most memorable characters in the Narnia books. Or at least, he certainly sticks in my mind, filling space that would otherwise be taken up by 1980s song lyrics. (I admit I have a soft spot for Faun Tumnus. We have a lamppost out in front of our house, and I always call it the Faun Tumnus Lamppost.) In the novels, we first see him mincing toward us through the snow on his goat hooves. “He was only a little taller than Lucy herself and he carried over his head an umbrella, white with snow. . . . He had a strange, but pleasant little face, with a short pointed beard and curly hair, and out of the hair there stuck two horns, one on each side of his forehead.” When he sees Lucy, he drops all the packages he’s carrying and says, “Goodness gracious me!” (A side note: this always cracks me up because I picture Fauns and Satyrs as the rednecks of mythology. They’re traditionally known more for drunken debauchery than good manners, but Faun Tumnus is so perfectly prissy.) Because he’s such an appealing character (and the first Narnian we meet), he is responsible for determining the readers’ allegiance. Tumnus tells us who the good guys are and shapes our view of the White Witch. As Lucy later summarizes, “She isn’t a real queen at all. . . . She’s a horrible witch, the White Witch. Everyone—all the wood people—hate her. She has made an enchantment over the whole country so that it is always winter here and never Christmas.” If we’d met the White Witch first, we might have been like Edmund and been ensnared by her Turkish Delight. But we get to know dear Faun Tumnus first, and when we see what happens to him because of his kindness to Lucy, we have a personal stake in wanting to see the Witch defeated. We don’t need to be rooting for Aslan to defeat the Witch for the sake of any allegory, no matter how deep or deftly drawn; we’re already rooting for Aslan for the sake of Tumnus. In other words, we don’t need any references outside the story itself to understand and appreciate the dichotomy between Aslan and the Witch. We don’t need to see them as God and Satan to understand their roles. It’s all already in there.

Not Obi-Wan Kenobi

Let’s talk for a minute about the Witch and Aslan’s big show-stopping moment. (Suddenly, I’m picturing a big song and dance routine with the Witch, Aslan, and the Beavers performing Rockette kicks. . . . Oh, that is so very wrong.) Of course I mean the moment of Aslan’s sacrifice in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

Aslan allows himself to be killed by the White Witch as payment for Edmund’s treachery. Because he is a willing sacrifice, Aslan is then resurrected, thanks to a deeper magic than the Witch knows. This is the scene most often mentioned as an obvious allegory to the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Of course, the first thousand times I read The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, I failed to notice any allegory. Wait, that’s not true—I did notice a parallel between Aslan’s death and Obi-Wan Kenobi’s death in Star Wars. Obi-Wan warns Darth Vader, “If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine.” Same sort of thing happens with Aslan, except he doesn’t warn the Witch. But given that C. S. Lewis most likely didn’t watch Star Wars before writing the Narnia books, I’m betting that George Lucas was not his source material. At any rate, I missed the (very clear and real) Crucifixion references.

But I didn’t miss the horror of the scene when all the nightmarish creatures mock Aslan as the Witch raises the stone knife. I didn’t miss the sweet sadness of the mice who gnaw away the ropes after the Witch and her followers leave. And I didn’t miss the glory of Aslan’s return or the joy of the romp through the morning. I know that I cried the first time I read the Stone Table scene, not knowing that Aslan was coming back. I cried for the horrible waste, I cried for Lucy’s loss, and I cried for Narnia. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t noticed the allegory. I was inside the story, and it touched me.

I believe that is what a good book should do: sweep you inside the story so that the characters’ joys and losses become your joys and losses. Everything else (moral, theme, allegory) is secondary. This is not to say that they are unimportant. Not at all! The Christian references in the Narnia books (and in the Stone Table scene in particular) add depth, richness, and resonance. But I believe that it’s the ability of the story to succeed on its own that gives a novel its staying power. I experienced the Stone Table scene as the sacrifice of Aslan, the great Lion-with-a-capital-L that I loved. If I’d been cognizant of the allegory as I read, I would have been too busy drawing parallels to fully experience the scene. I would have been too distant from the story to have cried—and the novel wouldn’t have stayed in my heart for as long as it has.

It’s the End of the World as We Know It (and I Feel Fine)

As a counterexample, there were two Narnia books that did not stay in my heart. (Sorry, C. S. Lewis!) In two of the books, the allegory does overwhelm the story—and as a consequence, the books lack staying power.

The Last Battle is a direct reference to Revelations. Um, I should put in a disclaimer here. If you haven’t noticed yet, I’m not exactly a biblical scholar—for a large part of my childhood, I thought Christmas was Santa Claus’s birthday—so I’m going to steer clear of details in the interest of not sounding like a total idiot. (As a general rule, I prefer to avoid looking like a complete idiot whenever possible. It’s one of my daily goals.) But I think it’s safe to say that the final Narnia book is Revelations. I mean, the world ends. “With a thrill of wonder (and there was some terror in it too) they all suddenly realized what was happening. The spreading blackness was not a cloud at all: it was simply emptiness. The black part of the sky was the part in which there were no stars left. All the stars were falling: Aslan had called them home.” And then the sun explodes. Unlike with the death of Bambi’s mother, there isn’t really any way to misconstrue the fact that virtually every single character from all seven books is now dead. For readers as dense as I am, Aslan even says flat-out: “There was a real railway accident. Your father and mother and all of you are—as you used to call it in the Shadowlands—dead. The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.”

This is not handled with any degree of subtlety. Sun exploding = not subtle. So unlike with Bambi’s mother, I did not miss the basic plot points. But I did forget it. When I returned to re-read The Last Battle for this essay, I discovered I had zero memory of this rather dramatic and lengthy scene. It had failed to take root in my imagination in the same way that the equally biblical Stone Table scene did.

I also had similar problems with The Voyage of the Dawn Treader. I did at least remember this book, but it never held the place in my heart that some of the other Narnia books do. I think Lewis got so caught up in the message of this book (the allegorical spiritual journey) that he forgot to ensure that the adventure (the actual physical journey) made sense. In this novel, King Caspian is sailing away from Narnia on a quest for seven men and the edge of the world—Aslan’s Country. Why? I understand the need to find the missing men. I even understand the desire to explore to the edge of the world. But why does Caspian go? Wasn’t there someone else he could send? I mean, he’s got a kingdom to run. Yes, he left a good regent, but he’s the king! Look at what happened to England when King Richard went poncing off to the Crusades—things got so bad there that the people needed Robin Hood—a vigilante—to protect them. (And while this led to the fabulous Disney movie with Robin Hood as a fox, it also led to Kevin Costner’s film. Why risk that with Narnia?) Why does Caspian want to reach Aslan’s Country himself, especially when reaching it means never returning to Narnia? I think this is just plain irresponsible of him. Even Caspian’s own people point out his selfishness. Reepicheep says, “You are the King of Narnia. You break faith with all your subjects, and especially with Trumpkin, if you do not return. You shall not please yourself with adventures as if you were a private person.”

Reepicheep, the warrior Mouse, does go on and never returns to Narnia, which also doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. Why is this great hero depriving Narnia of his strength and bravery before he’s old? If I’m reading the allegory correctly, Aslan’s Country is Heaven. Why is Reepicheep, the bravest creature in all Narnia, committing suicide? And why does the heroic King Caspian want so desperately to join him?

If I were more familiar with the texts and tenets of Christianity, would I appreciate these two books more? Would I understand better why Caspian and Reepicheep want to find Aslan’s Country? Would I see the death and destruction in The Last Battle as a happy ending? (Did I mention that they all die?) Maybe I would, and maybe I have just poked very large holes in my thesis here (oops). But I think that if the reader needs to access outside knowledge to understand a story, then the story loses power. Regardless of what the message is and regardless of its import, the act of thinking about something outside of the story disrupts the flow of the narrative. So by focusing too much on message, Lewis actually weakens that message’s impact.

Lewis succeeds better in other books, such as The Horse and His Boy. In that book, the characters are (quite sensibly) fleeing a horrible fate. The adventure is center stage, and so we journey along with them, absorbing themes and morals in a more effective way: through the story rather than instead of the story.

Of course the book where Lewis succeeds most brilliantly is The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. In it, the characters explore, escape, befriend, betray, fight, and win in accordance with their personalities, rather than to fit a plot contrivance or a particular message. This book is the most famous and beloved novel of the series. It’s also the one that focuses the most on the story. Coincidence? Methinks not. Lewis is at his most powerful (and memorable) when he delivers story first and message second.

Sure, It’s a Nice Garden, But Does It Have Tomatoes?

The Magician’s Nephew is another example of a story with a subtle-as-a-sledgehammer allegory that isn’t overwhelmed by its allegory. The Magician’s Nephew clearly references Genesis. It’s a creation story. Aslan sings the world into existence in a very “let there be light” sort of way. There’s even a temptation-in-the-garden scene that goes as far as to have the Witch use the word “knowledge” as she tempts Digory with an apple: “If you do not stop and listen to me now, you will miss some knowledge that would have made you happy all your life.” It also has its own Adam and Eve in the form of the cabby and his wife. (In case you missed this reference in The Magician’s Nephew, Lewis describes them in The Last Battle in this way: “These two were King Frank and Queen Helen from whom all the most ancient Kings of Narnia and Archenland are descended. And Tirian felt as you would feel if you were brought before Adam and Eve in all their glory.” Not exactly subtle.)

But this highly unsubtle novel also has elements that are purely Narnian. For example, it includes the origin of the lamppost. The Witch throws a metal bar at Aslan as he creates the world of Narnia. When the bar lands, it begins to grow like everything else affected by Aslan’s magic. It sprouts into a lamppost. To the best of my knowledge, there’s no religious allegory involved here. This scene merely explains why there’s only one lamppost and why it isn’t near any house or road. It’s details like this that allow the novel to transcend the underlying allegory.

Even the temptation scene mentioned above has its own Narnian flair and doesn’t require Bible knowledge to understand. The White Witch offers Digory an apple, which she says will cure his dying mother. But Aslan has instructed Digory to bring the apple back to him, so Digory has to make a terrible, gut-wrenching choice. Frankly, I doubt that I’d have the strength to make the same choice, but Digory (unlike me and unlike the biblical Adam) chooses to take the apple to Aslan rather than using it. As a reward, he is given another apple to cure his mother, and the core of that apple grows into the tree that later becomes the magic wardrobe.

Oh, the magic wardrobe! That wonderful, fabulous wardrobe! This is one of the enduring images of Narnia and is undoubtedly responsible for the continued existence of this type of (very large and heavy) furniture. Who doesn’t want to step into a wardrobe and through to Narnia? As with the wardrobe and the lamppost, the creation story in The Magician’s Nephew is specifically a Narnian creation story. Though it was inspired by Genesis, it stands on its own. And it works as its own story because it is internally logical—and because all the Narnian details are cool.

I Want a Talking Horse

All the Narnian details are cool. The Talking Beasts, for instance, fulfill a favorite fantasy of thousands of readers. Okay, maybe just mine, but haven’t you ever wondered what an animal would say if it could talk? What would your dog say? (“Food, food, FOOD!”) Or the gorilla in the zoo? (“I think, therefore I am.”) Or the neighbor’s cat? (“Psst, my mistress wears purple underpants.”) In the Narnia books, C. S. Lewis gives us a whole country of Talking Animals to daydream about—and also to care about. Even though we may never have met a Talking Deer (outside of Bambi), we immediately understand the horror in The Silver Chair that the Marsh-wiggle Puddleglum feels when he realizes he’s been eating a Talking Stag. He “was sick and faint, and felt as you would feel if you found you had eaten a baby.” I think that’s the most memorable (and nightmarish) scene in that entire book, and the fact that it succeeds as being so horrifying shows how compelling the fantasy of Talking Animals is.

As far as I know, the Talking Animals don’t have anything to do with any religious allegory. Like the lamppost, they are a purely Narnian element. And they are part of what makes these books special.

Personally, I believe that any story can be improved by the addition of a talking animal or two, and I’m not the only writer who thinks this. Thousands of magical creatures walk through hundreds of fantasy books, courtesy of writers who were inspired by the Chronicles of Narnia. Yes, I know there were plenty of talking animals and magical creatures in stories before Lewis’s books, but for many of us, Lewis was the one who first brought talking trees and Fauns to life for us and (more importantly) made us care about them.

Seriously, who doesn’t want to hang out with Lewis’s Talking Animals? After a long, tiring day, it would be so nice to have Mrs. Beaver clucking over you and fixing you a spot of tea and a hot marmalade roll. And who doesn’t want to ride a Talking Horse? I know I desperately wanted a Talking Horse when I was younger. (I didn’t want a real horse, of course. I was petrified of riding. To be fair, I was petrified of anything that looked like it could result in a broken neck. You might say “wimp”; I prefer “healthy survival instinct.”) Anyway, a Talking Horse is entirely different from a real horse. I thrilled to the escape of Shasta and Aravis on the backs of the Talking Horses Bree and Hwin in The Horse and His Boy. I imagined myself galloping across fields and farms on Bree’s back while he told me tales of Narnia and the North. . . .

There’s a lot to love in these books, and a lot of it (like the Talking Beasts) is utterly independent of religious allegory. In fact, I bet if you ask a hundred kids what they think of when you say the word “Narnia,” you won’t find one kid who says, “Ooh, those religious themes!” But you will find kids who mention Faun Tumnus, the White Witch on her sledge, the lamppost, the wardrobe, Reepicheep, the Gentle Giants, the Beavers, Aslan. . . . The symbolism and religious message in these books is important and valuable, of course, but grasping it isn’t a prerequisite to valuing the books.

The Point

And that’s why it’s okay that I missed the “point.” There’s so much else in this series to get. It’s a smorgasbord of meaningful moments and memorable characters, thrilling adventures and captivating places. It’s okay to miss the point because, regardless of any allegory or any meaning that we as readers impose from the outside, at its heart, the Chronicles of Narnia is a wonderful story. And this is, perhaps, the most important point of all.

As Lewis says in The Horse and His Boy, “For in Calormen, story-telling (whether the stories are true or made up) is a thing you’re taught, just as English boys and girls are taught essay writing. The difference is that people want to hear the stories, whereas I never heard of anyone who wanted to read the essays.” Um . . . well . . . yeah . . . what I mean is . . . oh, crap.

Sarah Beth Durst is the author of Enchanted Ivy and Ice from Simon & Schuster and Into the Wild and Out of the Wild from Penguin Young Readers, fantasy adventures that include neither wardrobes nor lampposts but are chock-full of magic polar bears, witches, princes, and were-tigers. She began writing fantasy stories at age ten after many failed attempts to find magical kingdoms inside her closet. She holds an English degree from Princeton University and currently lives in Stony Brook, NY, with her husband, her children, and her ill-mannered cat. She also has a pet griffin named Alfred. (Okay, okay, that’s not quite true. His name is really Montgomery.) For more about Sarah, visit her online at www.sarahbethdurst.com.