The Horse and His Boy. Now this one feels different from the rest of the Narnia series—it doesn’t begin with children from our world tumbling through wardrobes or magic rings. Instead, it drops us right into a different corner of Narnia’s wider world, Calormen, and that alone gives it this fresh, almost exotic flavor. And I’ll be honest, when I first read it, I was surprised by how much it felt like a road story, an adventure of running, hiding, and discovering who you really are.
So it starts with Shasta, right? He’s this scruffy boy living with a fisherman who treats him more like free labor than a son. And the moment that broke me a little? When Shasta realizes the man isn’t even his father at all. Like, he doesn’t feel loved, doesn’t belong—and then overhears he’s about to be sold off to some rich Calormene lord. That sting of realizing you’re unwanted—oof. I felt that. But then comes Bree. At first, Bree’s just this fancy warhorse, but then Shasta discovers the shocking truth: he’s a talking horse from Narnia. That moment gave me such a rush—it was like hope galloping straight into his hopeless life. Bree’s got that proud, slightly smug energy—“I’m a warhorse, I know better”—but under it all, you sense he really does care. #adventure
It is exciting and tense as they escape together. Slipping out at night, through the desert--it is gritty and dusty and desperate. And yet there is that hopeful under-current. On the road, they run into Aravis, a Calormene nobility girl who is ferocious and sharp and has her own horse, Hwin (another speaking horse, though kinder and wiser than Bree), with her. I like the changes in their relationship, how Shasta, the poor fisher-boy, who does not know much, and Aravis, proud and headstrong who looks down on him, first. So true to life is their bickering. And Hwin, which is true, I felt she always was the quiet heart of the party, patient and kind, and bringing things to rights when Bree and Aravis were letting their pride get to their heads.
Some of them remain in my memory: the scenes of sneaking in Tashbaan, this crowded, intimidating city where everything might go wrong. And of course, it does. Shasta is confused with Prince Corin, and is taken away into the palace, quite lost and confused, and the others fight to get away. That confusion is such a typical Narnia twist, where one thing is confused with another leading to something larger.
Then there is the back story of Aravis, where she narrates how she ran off to not be pushed into a marriage, even going to the extent of drugging her maid. That is so crude, since it exposes her weakness, her cruelty even, and yet it helps to make her experience even more real. She is not an ideal heroine, she is developing, she is bursting out of her world the only way she knows how.
The crisis reaches its peak when the group hears the scheme to invade Archenland and Narnia developed by the Calormenes. But before long their trip is not only about freedom, but about warning others, saving kingdoms. And the pursuit through the desert, and the lions pushing them along--I felt that my heart was in my throat. It puts the entire experience in a new light when you find out later Aslan was that lion, leading them with both fear and mercy. It made me emotional, I will admit, as I started thinking about those moments in my life when something frightening drove me and then I understood many years after that it saved me.
The unveiling of the true identity of Shasta is one of the classic Lewis moments: he is not a mere lost boy, he is Cor, the lost prince of Archenland. It all comes together at once the false identity, how he never felt at home, his quest. But it does not seem to me like a trope of some sort of chosen one forcefully thrust on you. It is deserved, as though Shasta had to trip, go hungry, and labor to become what he was.
It is an exciting battle, of course, with all that tension and the army of Rabadash. Still, I found the more painful part in the punishment of Rabadash. He does not merely hit him, Aslan imposes this embarrassing, even comical penalty on him (he becomes a donkey when he forsakes Tashbaan). It reminds the reader that justice is sometimes amiable, that pride sometimes can be unseated.
And in the end, seeing Shasta—now Cor—step into his true role, not just as a prince but as a brother to Corin, feels so satisfying. The story doesn’t end with crowns or castles in Narnia, but with a homecoming that feels intimate and right.
What I love about The Horse and His Boy is how different it feels from the others. It’s not about entering Narnia from outside; it’s about people already in that world finding freedom, identity, and belonging. It feels earthier, sweatier, more human in a way. And it made me reflect on my own sense of belonging—those times where I felt like Shasta, just drifting, only to realize later that the journey itself was shaping me into someone I was meant to be.
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