They were up by 8:00 a.m. for breakfast with toast and jam and a poached egg. By 9:00 a.m. Jack was at the desk in the library to read, study, or write until 11:00 a.m.
The first day at the desk with Mr. Kirkpatrick, there was no gabbing about what might or might not be going on in the world, nor any idle talk of the weather or health. Instead, the Knock set a large leather-bound book in front of Jack—The Iliad by Homer.
In Greek!
“Sir,” Jack said, “my mother taught me some Greek, but I don’t yet read it fluently. If we are to study The Iliad, I believe we must do it in English.”
“Just some Greek? Well then, we do have work to do, don’t we?”
The studying began, and continued just like this every day until 11:00 a.m., when they were interrupted by the kerfuffling of Mrs. Kirkpatrick bringing them cups of tea. Sometimes after tea Jack might step outside into the countryside, which grew increasingly familiar. He was back at the desk until lunch, then took another walk or reading at 2:00 p.m. Jack resumed work from 5:00 until 7:00 p.m., then came time for a real meal and conversation. He was in bed by 11:00 p.m., the covers tight about him, exhausted while his mind was swimming with stories and languages and logic and numbers.
But Sundays? As at school, Jack had the day to himself. But here there was no church to attend. Mr. Kirkpatrick was an atheist. On Sundays, Jack’s tutor tended to his garden more than to spiritual matters. Those were the days Jack wandered the countryside and town, down the narrow lanes and through the landscape dotted with villas and farmhouses to a countryside of rolling hills, solemn alleys of trees and hedges, waving heath, and wild blooms that changed with every season. During those long afternoon walks in nature he came to believe that one must shut the mouth and open the eyes and ears, for nature only asked of him to look, listen, and attend.
After the walks: more reading.
Jack ordered books from Messrs. Denny in London, and after days of great anticipation they would arrive in the post wrapped in gray paper. Usually it was an Everyman book, which cost only a few schillings. Those plain packages hid entire worlds and foretold of afternoons whiled away.
The years flew by in a routine that felt as comfortable as it did familiar.
One March afternoon he went for a haircut in Leatherhead. He stood in the station waiting for his train back to Bookham, a quick five-minute ride, and from a speaker overhead, the announcement of the train stops echoed across the high-domed ceiling. Early for the train, he wandered the station’s bookstall and discovered there, on a shelf of other Everyman books, ragged and slightly used, an edition of Phantastes by George MacDonald. With a free weekend of reading and tea （his favorites） waiting for Jack, he bought the book for a mere five shillings and tucked it into his bag.
Once back at the Kirkpatricks’ cottage and settled in the library, Jack opened Phantastes to discover a world filled with his favorite things—not that he had even known them before this moment, but here they were! Quests, a medieval romance, and fairies. The outside world faded away while he turned the pages. When he lifted his head from the book, the light had changed, and the room filled with the dusk of winter. Jack needed—no, he desired—to share the experience with someone he loved.
He jumped from the chair and grabbed stationery from the desk to write to his new friend, Arthur Greeves.
Arthur was Jack’s age of sixteen and lived down the street from Little Lea. A heart condition kept him from doing as much as Jack. During a visit to Belfast, in the fresh stillness of an early morning when Jack had visited Arthur, Jack had spied Siegfried and the Twilight of the Gods on Arthur’s bedside table. Before he could verbalize the truth, Jack knew, deep in the hidden places where truth sometimes hides, that Arthur and he would be lifelong friends. Now he wanted to share this new story with him.
Dear Arthur,
Have you read Phantastes? Surely you have not, or you would have told me . . .
From that moment, Jack’s reading life unfolded in a new way. He began to read any book he thought might be like MacDonald’s. These included Tristan and Isolde in French and Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queen. On the front flap of Phantastes, he wrote a long list of George MacDonald’s books, making it his goal to read each and every one.
Two and a half years passed in Great Bookham, and Jack Lewis sharpened his mind, his language, his reading, and his writing. He came to understand that judgment should be based on logic. He studied Greek, French, German, Italian, and read great classical literature. He learned to read for more than pleasure, and to translate, to debate, and to study. During his long discussions with the Knock, Jack became more skilled at defending his thoughts.
What he most longed to hear from his tutor were the words, “I hear you.” This meant Jack had hit the live wire of debate, and the conversation could go on. What he didn’t like to hear was “Stop!” or “Excuse me.”
When at long last it was time to leave Surrey, the Knock and Jack stood silent at the train station. The train pulled in front of them—again the smoke and the squealing brakes—but this time they were saying good-bye.
“Mr. Clive Staples Lewis,” said Mr. Kirkpatrick.
Jack almost laughed at the echo of their first meeting, and he held out his hand and shook his tutor’s. “Thank you for everything, sir. You have taught me so very much. My gratitude to you and Mrs. Kirkpatrick is great. You have taught me that talking and writing aren’t merely for chatter. They are, above all, a means to discovering the truth.”
“I hear you,” the Knock said. “I hear you.”
Jack climbed onto the train without a backward glance, for there had been nothing else he wanted to hear but those three words.
*
I watch George sit silently. The flames in the fireplace lick the edges of the bricks, the logs falling into chunks of glowing ember onto the grate.
“Megs, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” I ask.
“His best friend . . . Arthur, right?”
“Yes?”
“He had a heart condition. He spent a lot of time in bed.” George’s voice rises and falls with the absolute wonder of the one thing I hadn’t registered.
We sit in the silence of that truth, the connection that reaches through time.
“Do you think . . . ,” George asks. “Do you think it’s why he’s being so nice to us?”
“No,” I say. “I think it’s because he’s a nice man who . . . Oh, I don’t know.”
And I don’t. I realize that for all I do know, for all I want to pretend I know about life and death and the universe, I don’t know what matters most to George right now.
“Is he still alive? His best friend with the weak heart . . . is he still . . .”
“Yes!” I tell George. That much I do know. “Yes he is, and he’s in Belfast, and Mr. Lewis visits him every summer.”
I set my notebook on the floor.
“I bet,” George says, “I bet Mr. Kirkpatrick is the professor in the book.” George grins as if he’s discovered treasure in my telling.
I stand and toss another log on the fire. A spray of sparks flies upward, and I turn to George. “I asked him the same thing and all he said was, ‘The professor is the professor.’”