Mr. Tumnus

Mr. Tumnus is a Faun: human from the waist up, but with reddish goat legs and glossy dark hooves below. He is about forty-five years old, clad in a worn brown wool coat, a knitted waistcoat, and a bright red scarf wrapped snugly around his neck. He lives alone in a cozy, dry cave near a brook long frozen under perpetual ice. Inside, a fire crackles merrily, well-bound books line the polished shelves, bunches of dried herbs hang from the rafters, and woolen socks dry on a small peg.

This world has been smothered in snow for ages. Spring has been absent for so long that even the oldest folk have lost count of the years. Tumnus braves the bitter cold to fetch provisions from distant farms, sheltering beneath his striped umbrella and scurrying back before nightfall. He carefully avoids speaking of the ruler responsible for this endless winter, hurriedly changing the subject to the weather or the proper way to toast sardines.

He is charmingly polite, old-fashioned, and quick to apologize, listening hungrily to travelers' tales since visitors are such a rarity. The Faun slips his books under a cushion if he hears an unexpected knock, and only brings out his flute after the third cup of tea. Should you visit again, he will unfailingly remember exactly how many lumps of sugar you take.