Padraig piped up. “He’s right, indeed. Your heart does do that.”
The doors of the church opened as people began to make their way outside, and our group of four did the same until we stood on the grass that was turning to slush under everyone’s shoes.
Warnie coughed past his sorrow-drenched voice. “We wanted to meet him. I am so sorry that didn’t happen.”
“He met you in your stories,” I said. I looked away from these men I had come to love. I looked to the sky, to the stars hidden in sunlight that would reveal themselves in the night. I looked to wherever my brother might be. “And you’ve allowed me to see that we are enchanted not by being able to explain it all, but by its very mystery. That is—finally, that is—enough.”
Padraig squeezed my hand so tightly and Mr. Lewis said, “I hear you. I hear you.”
Now, yanked from the memory, another hand pulls at me—my grandson’s. And I am back in my library with my husband and young George.
Padraig sees my faraway look and he asks me, “Love, are you okay?”
I tilt my face up for another kiss as George squirms in my lap. “I am more than okay.” I glance down at the last pages of the book and I read the ending, the words I’d read at a service all those years ago when we said good-bye to my brother.
The brave boy’s story was short but full of just as much courage as any knight in shining armor fighting a dragon, just as full of bravery as any explorer journeying to the ends of the world to save a maiden, just as adventurous as any odyssey to the center of the earth.
The young boy understood now, after all the tales and adventures, after all the drawings and stories, and he told the grown-ups, who aren’t as smart as children, “There is a light, a bright lamppost light where all stories begin and end.”
Then his bedroom filled with the feeling of snow and light and warmth and darkness and joy and grief—everything of the broken and whole world, incongruent and holy, overflowing with mystery.
This feeling in his room was far better than the stories he loved, and yet the same. The hints had always been right in front of his eyes and inside his heart. The stories that thrilled him were echoes of the world that waited for him.
And he heard, as loud as a new world thundering out of the cosmos, the mighty roar of a lion.
A Note from Douglas Gresham
Patti Callahan Henry is already becoming known for her works, which indeed are well-admired books—full of good stories and a steadily deepening understanding of people.
But for me, all her previous books were overcome by the first book she wrote about my mother, Joy Davidman, and her marriage to C. S. Lewis, my stepfather. And this is not simply because she is a good writer （which she definitely is） but also because of the delicacy and care with which she wrote Becoming Mrs. Lewis.
For me, naturally enough, that is a very good book but also somewhat emotional for me to read. I was there, in that desperate and despairing world to which she was so carefully taking her readers. And yes, it did stretch my heart to some extent. But in her previous writings and in Becoming Mrs. Lewis, she was swimming in a calm, delicate sea.
In her new book, however, things have changed radically; she writes taking us adeptly through the storms of life that will face many of us and will move us deeply.
In Once Upon a Wardrobe, Patti smashes through the steep waves and torrents of life in ways that will leave us all astonished, searching and looking hard ahead. This is not merely a book worth reading, it is a book that will drive us through the difficulties of love and of sorrow, to struggle, gasping onward and upward, our emotions surging with us until we are brought, once again, to love.
In this amazing book Patti’s portrayal of my stepfather, C. S. Lewis, or “Jack” as he preferred to be known, comes once more to life, and he shows a very full understanding of what is needed to make us understand a little less carelessly, what the world expects of us—no, indeed, demands of us—until finally we get there! I advise you to read this book, then wait for a while and then read it again. For while it may not be Narnia, there is magic in it, and that deeply moved me.
Douglas Gresham
Stepson of C. S. Lewis
A Note from the Author
This novel, Once Upon a Wardrobe, is a story that grew out of many other stories, and I’m starting to see that maybe that’s always the way it is. When I was writing the novel Becoming Mrs. Lewis, I realized that the year that C. S. Lewis and Joy Davidman met through letters was the same year that The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was released: in 1950. Eventually, five Narnia books later, Lewis dedicated The Horse and His Boy to Joy’s sons, Douglas and Davy Gresham.
I often wondered about the time in C. S. Lewis’s life when he decided to start The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. What was the origin story? What made him start and then stop and then start again? Had he meant to create this land, or did it grow into Narnia as he wrote? I began to ponder how much his life ended up in his stories. How much of our life ends up in our stories? How much is conscious and how much is unconscious?
I leave that final answer to the experts in psychology, philosophy, and religion, but as usual I turned to story for our answer.
Most likely you feel the same as I do if you hold this book in your hand—Narnia was and is a powerful part of our collective lives and imaginations. I’ve never felt the need to dissect it like a specimen on a laboratory slide, or to take it apart to find its inner workings, but I did find myself wanting to convey the power of it in our lives. I felt a story stirring that might reveal exactly what C. S. Lewis meant when he said, “Sometimes fairy stories may say best what needs to be said.”
I fell through the wardrobe door of Narnia as a young child, wishing for my own Wardrobe. I would wager some of you did the same. I read the books to my children, and we’ve all cried through the movie.
As I considered The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, a young boy named George Devonshire and his sister, Megs, visited my imagination. Living in Worcester, England, in 1950, seven-year-old George is dying and his seventeen-year-old beloved sister can’t save him; she loves him fiercely and will do anything for him （just as C. S. Lewis and his brother Warnie loved each other）。 This young boy asks his sister to find the answer to his most pressing question: “Where did Narnia come from?” You see, Narnia comforts him. Narnia thrills him. He wants Narnia to be real. And although he asks his sister a question that can’t be truly answered, his sister goes looking for that very answer.
Megs, a mathematics student at Sommerville College in Oxford—who wants logical answers, ones that might be ticked off like the equations she solves—sets off to track down Mr. C. S. Lewis and timidly ask him about Narnia’s origins. He answers her, but not as we expect. He doesn’t give her the pat answer or logical ties; instead he tells her stories from his life for her to take home to George. Stories both dark and light, stories of triumph and heartbreak: true stories.
Although an author’s life and reading might inform a story in some ways, there are also large swaths of story-source that are altogether imaginative, mysterious, and transcendent. This is what I wanted to express.
As the Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue once wrote, “A book is a path of words which takes the heart in new directions.” And that is what I long to show you: how Narnia does that for us all.