I’m so excited to announce that one of our Friday Fiction contributors, C.J. Campbell, will soon see her debut novel, Tempest, enter the world. The book cover and blurb about the story are at the end of this post. Make sure you pre-order your copy today. Pre-order link for Tempest.

By C.J. Campbell

There’s a place I know. A small, leafy, colourful square in the midst of a concrete jungle in the busiest part of East Belfast in the North of Ireland. C.S. Lewis Square is its name—of course, an ode to the scholar, teacher, author, and Christian who was born there. Though, I imagine when he roamed the streets of Belfast it looked rather different. I imagine a lot has changed since he penned the first stories of Narnia and sent them out into the world to become some of the most beloved—if not the most beloved—children’s stories.

Something that hasn’t changed though? The wonder of Narnia.

In C.S. Lewis Square there is a trail of sorts. Hidden within the leaves and railed gardens are beautiful sculptures of metal and stone depicting the characters from Narnia. If you happen across the entrance to the Square, you’ll find a life-size sculpture of Lewis peering into a wardrobe with an almost mischievous grin on his face. Follow the path from the wardrobe and you’ll happen upon the faun—Mr. Tumnus—dancing in the shade of laurel bushes under a lamppost. Then, only a step or two more and you come nose-to-snout with Maugrim, the wolf and head of the secret police, as he prowls over a cascade of rocks, red eyes piercing and fangs bared.

Stumbling out of his path and you’ll scurry through the trees only to be met with a beautiful but terrible being—The White Witch. Her beauty stuns for only a second until you notice the soulless eyes and fake smile, and then your off again on the path finally happening upon a more welcoming duo. Mr. and Mrs. Beaver wave and it takes a moment to realize it’s not you who they greet, but another. For there, on the hill, stands the mighty Lion, Aslan. His stature, the grandest thing in the park as he presides over the whole square, with everything under his paws. His presence is so awesome that you can spend an age sitting under his protective shadow; sipping tea, reading a book, or watching the world meander by. That is, until in that quiet moment your eyes fall on the far end of the park, to a stone table broken in two. And for those that know the meaning of the tale of Aslan then you will know of how his sacrifice broke the table where he shed his innocent blood willingly, in place of a traitor.

I will admit to it not being the first time that I’ve become choked up pondering that moment from my safe position under the shade of Aslan. Not the first time I’ve run from the nightmares of life just to sit in that very spot and fall away into imagination. Into fantastical worlds of magic and legends. Worlds where the truth is easier found. Where love and freedom are things that are fiercely fought for and defended with courage. As an author myself, this little park has become a sanctuary. A place to steal away to and scribble furiously in my journal any ideas and stories that come to mind. An escape.

Famously, at the end of ‘Voyage of the Dawn Treader’ Aslan addresses an emotional Lucy and Edmund. When Lucy realizes, she won’t return to Narnia she weeps at the thought of never seeing Aslan again in our world. He comforts them with the most enduring and stirring dialogue. If I can persuade anyone to take just one thing from C.S. Lewis’ wonderful imagination it is this little snippet;

“It isn’t Narnia, you know,” sobbed Lucy. “It’s you. We shan’t meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?”
“But you shall meet me, dear one,” said Aslan.
“Are -are you there too, Sir?” said Edmund.
“I am,” said Aslan. “But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

For the purpose of Narnia—the entirety of the author’s reasoning to create his magnificent work—was so that we may know a little of Aslan here by spending just a little time caught between the pages of a book, meandering in a world of our imaginations.

And that, dear ones, is a mighty gift.

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Not many people talk about the gift of imagination. Often times I find it is almost shunned in our world, even among faith communities. Logic and knowledge seem to be the weapon of choice and yet it appears to me that we utterly dismiss that even the sacred Scriptures, that inspired C.S. Lewis himself, were too often a woven tale of miraculous and mind-bending storytelling. The parables of Jesus are powerful tools of imagination meant to spark thoughts in us. Thoughts that would make us question the narrative. To register that everything that appears beyond our control; the things that terrify us and leave us fearful, crushing our hopes, these things are only illusions. We’re prompted time and time again to use that beautiful gift of our imaginations to weave a story of faith. To utterly reject the negative narratives that surround us and steal away to that place of childlike imagination. Because at one time we were Lucy or Edmund Pevensie. Once upon a time, we believed in the impossible. We believed in the story of Narnia. I searched many a wardrobe in my persistence it was indeed real. And it was—just not in a wardrobe—it was in my wonderful imagination. A place I could visit any time I wished.

We never lost our imagination, you know. We just got old and cynical. We thought stories were for little kids and packed our imagination away with our toys forgetting that it’s our imagination that is the key back to our unquestioning childlike wonderment and faith.

It has been at the paws of Aslan, in a little park, tucked away in the city of Belfast, on an inconsequential island that I found my faith and courage to write. It was pondering on the fairy tales, the myths and legends of my home, pouring over the books I adore and staring at that stone table that I remembered I was given a gift. A powerful tool to not just imagine my own stories, but tell them too. But, more than just that, to know that this wonderful gift of imagination can be used to believe in better, to hope for the greater good, and to persist in the faith that all is indeed well.

So, to that I raise my pen—a sword in its own right—to C.S. Lewis in gratitude and common purpose, and say;

‘For Narnia! And for Aslan!’

Clare Campbell (CJ), is a self-professed Tolkien fanatic, an Elven Queen-of-Fanfiction, and a caffeinated book-troll. Her alter-ego is a Professional Occupational Therapist by day, and a multi-award-winning author of fantasy, romance, and inspirational writing by night.

Tempest