Once Upon a Wardrobe(38)

For half of a breath, I think of telling him that I’ve read most of Phantastes, that I spent the night wondering about it, that I am ready to return to it as soon as possible, but I don’t speak. Not yet. I want to finish the book first and think more about it before daring to speak to him of it.

Instead I ask, “This may sound silly, but do you think you choose these life-changing books, or do they choose you?” I am muddling my words, mixing up what I mean. “Maybe you choose what is already interesting to you or . . .”

His laugh echoes through the forest. A flock of black birds fly overhead, cawing disapproval at being disturbed. Warnie turns and smiles, waits for us now. “A good question!” he says, and somehow I know he won’t answer. Indeed, he moves on. “Now where we were last?” he asks.

“You told me all about Norse mythology and George MacDonald and stories; you were still living with the Knock and—”

Warnie’s laugh interrupts. “Ah, then shall she know about your exams?”

Mr. Lewis playfully ignores his brother. “Ah, yes, then university is next.” Mr. Lewis keeps talking, his walking stick making small holes in the snow. “I took the exams and the lion of mathematics came for me. I failed algebra—devil take it.”

I take in a sharp breath. He failed? He didn’t attend Oxford as a student? Where had he gone? I had assumed . . .

“Isn’t it odd?” he says and stops in his tracks. “If it wasn’t for the war, I might not have been admitted at all. Yet here in Oxfordshire, my entire life has unfolded. And you, you are here for math.” He shakes his head with a chuckle. “So differently we are created. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Warnie laughs, meeting my backward gaze with a lifted eyebrow. “And don’t you know—they almost didn’t admit Jack for his poor math score, and then he went and graduated with a rare Triple First.” Warnie paused with a bragging grin. “The highest honors in three areas of study: in Greek and Latin literature, in philosophy, and in English.”

“Oh,” I say. “So many . . .” I acknowledge this fact with a smile, but my thoughts have already taken off toward Mr. Lewis’s mention of the war. “And you were in the war?” I ask. “How . . . awful.”

Mr. Lewis nods and looks at Warnie. Something passes between them, something I guess will never be in a story or possibly even be formed into words.

I persist. “Where did they send you in the war, Mr. Lewis?”

He takes a few breaths and regards me. “France.”





Fifteen

Being Brave




Exams are finished, and my brain feels as if it is made of soft pudding. My pack is heavier than usual as I’m carrying my things home for holiday. So this time I will take the shorter way home instead of the path I prefer on the Severn Way running alongside the river. From the railway station I trudge along the Foregate Road and see Worcester Cathedral’s tower grasping for the low clouds. I hoist my pack and head toward the London Road and home. It does not escape me that the London Road in Oxford is the one that leads toward Mr. Lewis’s house, and this one to mine.

Beneath the fatigue, I’m slightly annoyed. Mother said she would pick me up with the car and she didn’t show, perhaps mistaking my arrival time. But the air is light and cold, and the walk isn’t so bad; the sky is deep blue, without a cloud to be seen. Neighbors along the mile wave at me as I pass: Mrs. McReady, standing with her broom on the front stoop pretending to sweep but in truth watching for any impropriety she can report at teatime to her friends. And Mr. Litton, coming home from a trip to market and opening his front door.

On this holiday break, I plan to sleep to my heart’s content and read stories to George. I’ve brought with me The Light Princess because it was written by the same author as Phantastes. If Mr. Lewis loved George MacDonald, perhaps there is something deeper in these tales that George will also love.

We will figure it out—George and I. We will piece these stories together and deduce where Narnia was born.

I turn the corner to home and see that the gate to our cottage is flung wide open.

Something’s wrong!

No smoke rises from the chimney, smoke that usually signaled comfort and family. Paying no mind to the icy walkway, I run into the cottage, drop my pack, and rush through the kitchen and then to George’s empty room.

Fear like barbed wire snags my breath. I know better than to guess why the rooms are empty—there can be as many reasons as there are wild dreams. I fling open the wardrobe: empty. On his bed are scattered pencils and the open notebook. I glance quickly—pages and pages of drawings of lions and castles, scenes of the stories I have told him. In each one, George has added a lion: sometimes roaring, sometimes resting or just watching.

I drag in a few breaths and rush back to the kitchen. Mum knew I was coming. Before leaving, I’d rung her from the residence hall.

I see it: a note on the kitchen table, the place where most of my life has unfolded.

At hospital.

I flip the torn paper over but there is nothing to console me, nothing to tell me why or when. I’d phoned three hours ago, so this is no planned doctor visit. The left-open gate already told me that.

I grab my satchel and run out the front door, slam it shut, then bolt down the icy streets, my bag flapping against my hip for the two miles to hospital. I race down the London Road past the houses and neighbors, skirting the empty Port Royal Park. I’m accustomed to walking that far but not running, and running seems to be all I can do.