Once Upon a Wardrobe(5)

By the end of his lecture, I did care a bit more about Edmund Spenser and his work and the revival of medieval motifs and how a poet ought to be a moral teacher. That’s how Mr. Lewis is; he captures the mind as quick as a heartbeat.

After the lecture, I followed Mr. Lewis at a long distance as he walked nearly to a run through the town’s streets, his walking stick swinging to a secret rhythm. From behind Magdalen he hurried onto a path that ran parallel to the London Road called Cuckoo Lane. I tried to keep up with him on a secluded and walled passageway through gardens, then up the hill toward Headington. I followed at a safe distance, out of breath and carrying my books. It was a charming hidden route, and we passed under an arched stone overhang connecting wall to wall, ivy growing wild and giving me a feeling of the world being made of nothing but stone and vines and hidden crannies. The narrow Cuckoo Lane connected Headington to Old Headington and seemed meant for only a secret few; now I was one of them.

From there I trudged up the long hill to his house. I tried to find my words, to cough out the only question that mattered, but nothing happened. He was oblivious to me, his thoughts wherever an author’s thoughts might go. Before I knew it, he had walked through the gate of the Kilns and was gone.

I’ve been sitting in these woods behind his brick house for three evenings in a row, trying to screw up the courage to speak to him. So far that screw hasn’t turned far enough. I’ve nearly decided to invent a tale and answer for George, tell him that Narnia came from a great box of stories that Mr. Lewis keeps in his study. I will tell George that Mr. Lewis is magical and has his own sources that he refuses to reveal.

But I can’t lie to George. I never have, and I’m not about to start now.

This afternoon I rode the bus to the Kilns, and now I stare over the rolling and hilly acreage, thick with fir and alder, lumpy with boulders and tree stumps. The Kilns feels a world away from university. It isn’t Narnia—I’m not so deluded to believe I can walk onto the author’s property and find a spired castle and a white witch. But there is a lamppost or two along the way, and the trees do indeed appear as if they might house sleeping dryads. The frozen lake might be where Lucy ran across with Mrs. Beaver. That is, if you look at it just right through squinted eyes.

Through the still air, I’ve heard the voices of the people who live in the author’s house and I’ve come to differentiate them. There are two Lewis brothers and a man named Paxford, whose voice has such a quick-drilling sound I can barely distinguish his jumbled words. Paxford keeps the land, planting and cutting and cleaning. Twice he’s walked near me and hasn’t seen me hiding. His hands are large, and I was mesmerized by their size as he cut down a branch that blocked the view to the small lake.

C. S. Lewis is called Jack. His brother is called Warnie; I don’t know his real name. I suspect these brothers, despite being quite old to me, would understand why I sit on their land and huddle on their rock, because they seem to love each other the way George and I love each other. They would understand my grief and fear. But maybe they will never really know how I feel, because trespassing does not seem the best way to begin a friendship.

I’ve only seen them once.

The first two times I came, I stayed for hours. Each hour my courage grew only the tiniest bit, as my toes got colder by quite a lot. Soon I would become brave enough to call out their names and blab the question I have come to ask: Where did Narnia come from? My brother, he needs to know. He must know.

But I’m a coward, unable to approach them.

The afternoon sun moves behind a bank of clouds flat and low, and the woods start to turn to shadow-shapes. Trees, bushes, and rocks on the white ground appear like cutouts in lace. I think of how the author must’ve found some of his fantasyland in this place, because I think I can see it too. I can almost imagine Mr. Tumnus ambling from behind a rock or the great Aslan setting his huge lion paws on the ground as it shakes with his majesty. My attention wanders. I let my vigilance flag, and a voice shocks me from my reverie.

“Well, hello there!”

I startle and slip from the rock, landing softly and with a grunt in the deep snow. My legs askew and my arms thrown behind me, I must appear to be quite crazy. A man—I see it is the author’s brother, Warnie—is looking down at me.

“I’m so very sorry,” I say as I rearrange my limbs to stand.

The man holds out his leather-gloved hand and I take it. He pulls me up. “Are you all right?”

“I am. Please don’t be angry. I’m sorry I’m trespassing. I’ll leave. I was just . . . sitting here thinking. I wasn’t doing anything . . . wrong. I promise.” My words tumble out on top of each other.

He bursts into a laugh so wonderful that the trees seem to shake with his shoulders. “I doubt you are here to do harm.”

Now that he’s up close, I can see him clearer. He’s tall with a jowly face and a shaggy moustache. Above his ruddy nose are twinkling brown eyes. A tweed hat sits low, tilted over his forehead, and his body is covered with layers of coats and sweaters. All about him is the aroma of pipe smoke and wood fire. He looks at once both jolly and sad.

“Don’t be so sorry. I’m Warren Lewis. And you are?”

“I am Megs Devonshire.”

“Is there something you’re looking for? Are you lost?”

“No. I know where I am. I’m here on purpose. I was looking for . . . Narnia.” It is the stupidest thing to say. A grown woman—well, almost that—claiming such a thing. The heat of embarrassment crawls beneath my woolen coat and up my neck. “I mean—”