I often share some detail or story from my day early in the family’s dinner conversation. I’ll just announce it to see if the kids find it intriguing. “I heard something funny today,” I’ll say, and if they quiet down, I know they’re ready. Often they quiet out of politeness, Big Sister nudging Little Brother to stop talking so I’ll continue, and on those days my story rarely grabs hold.
But yesterday was different.
“I heard about something interesting today,” I said, and they quieted enough for me to continue. “I read online that there was a well-traveled explorer who had completed a few adventures with adult clients, and, after he’d returned from one, his daughter was clamoring for him to take her on an adventure.”
They were listening. I had approached the story from the right angle. “So he agreed. But he is not the kind of father who sets out willy-nilly on a random jaunt. He planned every detail of their exploration, anticipating each contingency and emergency, each need they would have along the way. And after more than three years of planning, he told her to put on her shoes and come along with him.
“She asked no questions, trusting her father’s skill and intentions. And well she should, for he led her to the other side of town—”
“Which town?” my ten-year-old asked.
“Our town,” I told him, relishing the eager look he then shared with his sisters. This story was better than they’d anticipated.
“Where they parked their car outside an old house. It wasn’t run-down, exactly, but cold-looking. The kind of house where a widow can’t afford new paint or shingles. The kind of house where the neighbors lose track of what the occupant looks like.
“’Who lives here?’ his daughter asked.
“‘No one,’ he replied, ‘anymore.’ They sneaked around and found the back door open. The girl entered without fear, trusting her father the explorer, and they worked their way quietly up two sets of stairs, halting before the door to an attic room.
“‘Are we going into the attic?’ she asked.
“‘No,’ the girl’s father said. ‘This door does not currently enter the attic. It goes someplace much better.’”
At this, my own children held their breath, not willingly, but reflexively. Where?
“‘Narnia,’ he said.”
With that, my twelve-year-old’s laugh burst from her like a geyser, and my story succumbed to a barrage of questions.
“Did she go?”
“Of course.”
“Who else was there?”
“Diggory. And Polly.”
“When was it in Narnia?”
“Before the Wardrobe, after the Magician’s Nephew.”
“What happened?”
“She discovered how the stone table came to be.”
Laughter. Each question cranked up the glee.
Finally, the dawning realization.
“And it’s in our town?”
“Yes.”
Then the connection.
“And is the door still open?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
But they couldn’t hear, because their minds were screaming with the white noise of implication. The door was open? A few blocks away? Eventually, they completed their line of inquiry.
“Can we go?”
And this is where I recognized my mistake. I had so enjoyed telling them about Narnia, so relished their reaction to a new entrance, I had not considered the crushing blow I must now deliver.
“No.”
Their faces asked what their mouths could not.
“You can’t. The town closed access to the property and won’t allow anyone else to enter. The explorer hadn’t asked permission, and while they can’t undo what he’s done, they can prevent others from doing it.”
“How do you know?”
“He showed a few friends and still sneaks people in. They’ve been talking about it. But you have to know him. And I don’t.”
“So, will we ever get to go?”
“I don’t know. The town can restrict access to the house for a long time. They know lots of ways to block it off.”
Which meant, I now realized, that even if someone eventually gains access, my twelve-year old will be far too old to enter Narnia herself. Perhaps she would be able to guide her own child to the door, but at twelve, this is no consolation.
***
And while this tale of a portal is fictional, it traces the true emotional trajectory of the conversation I had with my kids. I told them that Francis Spufford, an accomplished and talented writer, had written a new Narnia book called The Stone Table. That Alan Jacobs, a biographer of C.S. Lewis and friend of Spufford, says it is “one of the best works of fiction I have read in the past several years.” That it tells a story Lewis might likely have told himself if he’d lived long enough.
And that they would not be able to read it.
I know the guardians of Narnia at C. S. Lewis (PTE.) Ltd. feel it is their duty to prevent the sullying of Narnia. They want to protect Lewis’s legacy and the legacy of the Narnia canon. But in rebuffing Spufford’s tale, aren’t they walling off the realm in a way Lewis never did? No Narnia book requires another story, yet no Narnia book excludes another, either. Lewis always left the door open, seemingly so he could invent another excuse for himself to enter.
It would serve these Guardians of Narnia well to follow Andrew Peterson’s lead. Peterson let a gaggle of friends invent tales for the land of Aerwiar, which he’d invented in his Wingfeather Saga, and such competent story-telling only increased the wonder of Peterson’s world, a world grand enough to contain all the tales.
But these are the arguments of a grown up, and for an issue concerning Narnia, it strikes me that my children’s reaction is worth considering.
They don’t care about trademark laws. They care about Narnia, and to them there is no logical reason why a mob of grown-ups would block a functional portal into that world.
At the same time, none of this should surprise them, because they’ve read Prince Caspian, where, after Lucy spots Aslan high on the hills, Susan says to her, “Where do you think you saw him?” The question provokes a vehement reaction: “‘Don’t talk like a grown-up,’ said Lucy, stamping her foot. ‘I didn’t think I saw him. I saw him.’”
Grown-ups don’t think kids are as sharp as they are; kids’ opinions aren’t to be trusted. Thus, grown-ups don’t listen to Lucy.
But since my children have read the rest of the book, they also know those who didn’t listen to Lucy were wrong.
