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Excerpted Inspirations #253

Writer: Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
Linda Odhner, with photos by Liz Kufs
Nov 2
0 min read
[Continued from last week.] At that moment a hissing, scorching voice like the voice of Fire itself (they wondered afterwards if it could have been a salamander’s) came whistling up out of the very depth of Bism. “Quick! Quick! Quick! To the cliffs, to the cliffs, to the cliffs!” it said. “The rift closes. It closes. It closes. Quick Quick.” And at the same time, with ear-shattering cracks and creaks, the rocks moved. Already, while they looked, the chasm was narrower. From every side belated gnomes were rushing into it. They would not wait to climb down the rocks. They flung themselves headlong and, either because so strong a blast of hot air was beating up from the bottom, or for some other reason, they could be seen floating downwards like leaves. Thicker and thicker they floated, till their blackness almost blotted out the fiery river and the groves of live gems. “Good-bye to your Honours. I’m off,” shouted Golg, and dived. Only a few were left to follow him. The chasm was now no broader than a stream. Now it was narrow as the slit in a pillar-box. Now it was only an intensely bright thread. Then, with a shock like a thousand goods trains crashing into a thousand pairs of buffers, the lips of rock closed. The hot, maddening smell vanished. The travellers were alone in an Underworld which now looked far blacker than before. -C. S. Lewis, The Silver Chair (1953), 177-178

 
 
 

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