CHAPTER ONE
On the outskirts of Oxford, England, sat a lovely old country cottage, like something straight out of a fairytale with a happy ending. Up the weathered gray stone grew ivy tendrils that embraced the windows and arched wooden doors in dark green leaf. Hedges, vines, and honeysuckles surrounded the property and a narrow dirt path led to a tiny pond with lily pads and a few goldfish, maybe a frog or two.
The historic house seemed to have collapsed inwardly on itself, somewhat like a fresh loaf of bread taken out of the oven too soon. The roof sagged and the red clay shingles stuck up in places like wonky teeth. Twin terracotta chimney pots curiously towered above its peaked roof. Its gables were at such tilted angles that it gave them a toy-like silhouette of a wickedly bizarre party hat.
From the crown of the carved chimneys, ringlets of silver and grey smoke waltzed into the shadows of the predusked sky as a repulsed goldfinch skirted the hazy air and took refuge in a hollowed out crabapple tree with green and orange leaves. She mournfully warbled her protest at the troves of imagination being heedlessly incinerated in the inglenook fireplace below.
Inside, the rich oaky smell of fire that permeated the common room and lingered on the fabric of a silver wingback chair and curtains was replaced by the acrid stench of dying dreams. A timeless Persian rug adorned the chilly wooden floors of this enchanted sitting room and gave it a homey yet regal prestige. Today, there was only one man in this medieval cottage called The Kilns, and he wasn’t there to drink tea, read, nor discuss cunning plots of childhood fiction or artful philosophical thought as his brother had when he was alive. No, it was quite the opposite.
Major Warnie Lewis, a great English gentleman, hastily paced the floor and absentmindedly bumped into the formidable antique family wardrobe, but in his run at the fireplace he barely noticed it all. On ensuing trips, his farsighted bumps against the furniture induced an “excuse me”, or “oh, so sorry” as he kept at it. The wardrobe was one that his grandfather built and that they had played in as small children, spending endless moments of forever in Narnia before being called to dinner. It wobbled now, more than ever, as he scooped up armloads of his younger brother’s unpublished literary genius and heaped them on the blazing fire.
Would there be more lay theology and fantastical novels with new adventures to be had in the far land of Spare Oom, where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe? Would the Sons of Adam and the Daughters of Eve discover other far lands, prophecies, or hidden laws written before the beginning of time and reign forever in the New Narnia?
The betraying pull of the aggressive chimney propelled the ingenious works upward and onward, while outside the orangey red streaked sky became a canvas for lost dreams and imaginative worlds. This mundane world was startled to silence by a clumsy and outrageous act, but if one listened closely enough they might’ve heard the old nemesis Screwtape say, “Well done,” as he nodded and winked toward Wormwood. “The old boy never saw it coming.”
“Aye, his heart hath been laid to the hearth.”
The wind itself appeared to echo their sniggering in an unholy ridicule of the divine.
Just then, a few sunbeams furtively peeked through the clouds. The gap was just big enough for those in the heavens to catch their final evening glance of The Kilns, as the treasured papers were lost to time, family debt, and the dire need to sell the late C.S. Lewis’ home. If only one could supervene and rescue the treasured tales set aflame.
It wasn’t an untoward moment, which caught anyone above the clouds off-guard. Those up there in the Netzach Library had long prepared for this marvelous day, including the head librarian Bochord, The Hoarder of Books. He was a ferocious looking but friendly Polar Bear with fluffy snowshoe-like paws, useful for walking on clouds, swimming, or playing with Play-Doh. He towered majestically behind a knotty, worn wooden desk taking stock of the activities, as only a very large talking Polar Bear could when he was in charge of such an extraordinary library. Bochord was located merely feet from a few other workers and old desks covered with stacks of well read books.
Just then the same flippity goldfinch flew in through the window, past rows upon rows of the ancient books and lit on a creaky lectern, aching to convey an urgent message. She chirped and hastily scoured the pages of a tattered atlas with her tiny bill tip, and then firmly placed her petite talon on Headington Quarry.
“That’s it,” she said.
Bochord nodded.
CHAPTER TWO
The location that the flippity goldfinch pointed out, in the well-worn pages of the atlas, was without question the former home of a stooped, balding, professorial gentleman with nicotine stained teeth and the imagination of a child in his heart—C.S. Lewis, or simply known as Jack by his true friends. He was a jolly man whose creativity somehow made us all better neighbors, friends, and people. He brought the best out in each of us and raised the intellectual bar for us all. Those in the Netzach Library were well aware of Mr. Lewis’ credentials and had even seen the brilliant writer mulling about and having tea with the famous Inklings literary group, sharing stories on his first days there.
Bochord nodded toward the tiny avant-courier and immediately summoned two of his elfin library clerks—Lux and Libby. As soon as he jingled his silver desk bell the eager librarians dropped their fancy, fully plumed quills, abandoned their filing of books, and were immediately up and running to answer the call. They were, oh-so, excited that the inspired works of Mr. Lewis would soon arrive—and as always, right on schedule.
Before long they were on their way, gleefully anticipating the new arrivals with a wagon full of empty Apricus jars in which to store their treasures. The sparkly clear molded containers were very much like glass Mason jars with screw thread, two-piece silver lids to seal in the freshness, except that these were for capturing lost dreams, imagination, and long forgotten ideas. Once these previously lost creative works were captured, the amorphous smoke would settle and transform into a thin honey-like ink that glistened and glowed, like a sunny dream, as it twisted in the jar. It would later be used to print astounding tales—but first they had to catch it.
With their Apricus jars in hand, the two reliable clerks held down each other’s legs and stretched out over the edge of a small white patch of cloudlets congregating near the trails of smoke. They didn’t have broad fluffy feet, like Bochord the Polar Bear, so they had to be extra careful walking on clouds, so as to not tumble in-between and get stuck.
It took quite a lot of skill, since not just anyone could capture lost dreams and imagination. The difficult catches might even require bouncing or leaping from one foggy precipice to another, as one might jump a crooked country stream in the absence of an old fallen tree bridge. Indeed, as they prepared and positioned themselves, they looked very much like insect collectors skimming mayflies and beetles from the surface of a clear running stream, except at this height it was much trickier.
On this particular adventure, catching wisps of imagination would require one member of the team to grasp the Apricus jar with both hands and the other to delicately cast the silver tinseled net to haul it in. It was so very exciting and the anticipation so tremendously high that one dared not breathe unless absolutely necessary. Imaginations at this stage were so fragile and had to be handled with the utmost grace and finesse.
As the wisps of blue-gray smoke came into sight, Lux and Libby froze like statues with an occasional deep, audible breath expressing their joy, relief, and tiredness in equal measures. It was an extraordinary sight to behold, witnessing the boundless library of C.S. Lewis’ imagination entwined in swirls of the livid smoke, lofting into the heavens. It was from their perfect cloud bank that they painstakingly netted and secured the contents in clear seraphic containers. When the diaphanous contents had filled up nearly seven Apricus jars, they twisted the lids on tight, and placed them in the wagon.
This happy day elevated their spirits so fabulously that their smiles seemed to burst from within them. They were a great deal better than the sour obligated smiles worn by some people who don’t really mean it. They were enormously delighted with their catch and would meticulously prepare the collection of Apricus jars for inventory when they returned to the library. As they relaxed, ate cookies, and drank lemonade that Libby brought along, they joyfully admired their literary catch—imagining what this story or that one might be like and what would happen in it. These stories would surely be the most thrilling of all, they thought.
When it was watched, the smoke in each of the Apricus jars wildly churned and swirled all the more, shining as bright as the wondrous imaginations they held.
“Oh, how lovely!” Libby squealed.
“They’re REALLY going to like this one,” Lux said, excitedly shaking the jar to watch the rescued smoke cavort enthusiastically.
“Yes, you could read, by that one, for a Narniaplexianth, maybe even two or three, who knows?” Libby asked. No one really knew exactly how long a Narniaplexianth lasted, except to say that it was certainly a long, long time, between times, and usually felt like no time had passed at all when you returned from any far lands one traveled to.
Clive and Warnie Lewis had discovered this strange new measurement of time in Narnia long years ago, but it was now merely a faint echo rarely, if ever, heard by adults.
CHAPTER THREE
When Lux and Libby returned to the Netzach Library, Bochord closely inspected their newly acquired Apricus Jars. “Oh, my, I have no doubt that these stunning jars, seen across the night sky, will shine their brightest as intimate night watchers wish upon them.”
But when he noticed a more radiant flash of light burst from inside one Apricus jar, he warned, “You must stay on your toes handling the brightest lights.” He held it up high in his huge right paw to demonstrate. “This dazzling Apricus jar alone might briefly blind someone not so accustomed to the awe-inspiring imagination as you or I. Why, they might even go hours or days without seeing.”
“Shall I pour them in darker jars,” Libby offered, “until they’re used to it?”
“No,” Bochord answered, “everyone’s eyes must adjust on their own and in their own time. When they’re ready they shall see.”
“Where do you find this exclusive kind of imagination?” Libby asked, examining prime jars on the library shelves as she spoke.
“Oh, it typically grows in and around sparkling lakes, babbling brooks, and magnificent snow-domed Alps creviced to perfection,” Bochord said, “which only the bravest can climb…but it thrives most abundantly in the hearts of children.”
“Imagination grows in children?” Lux asked, excitedly.
“Why yes, that’s the best place ever,” Bochord said. “It’s well known that no one’s make-believe is better than a child’s, unless it’s stretched.”
Lux and Libby playfully tugged at the arms of an older friend of the library, Mrs. Sophia Beaver. She had nodded off, unmoved by the flights of fancy and seemed quite annoyed at first when they pestered her awake. You see, Beavers work extremely hard at building things and need their rest whenever they can get it. But Mrs. Beaver didn’t act angry. She merely yawned and said, “Yes, it’s a well-known fact that young make-believe is the most fertile ground for imagination. Just open that Apricus jar,” she pointed to the one Bochord held, “and you’ll see for yourself.” Then she fell back to sleep before she could watch them. “ZZZZzzzzz…”
First, Libby struggled quite forcibly to unscrew the tightly sealed cover, but it wasn’t such an easy task. She banged the edges of the Apricus jar and tried her best to twist off the snug lid, but it just wouldn’t budge. “Oh, dear, someone must have glued it shut,” she said, exasperated about not being able to open it.
Then Lux, feeling quite capable, puffed himself up and exclaimed, “I shall pretend that I’m much bigger and stronger like Bochord!”
Bochord smiled a thin Polar Bear smile and nodded. “So, then, let it be done, my little friend.”
Lux wasn’t quite as confident as the mighty words he spoke, but it didn’t show on the outside. He latched on to the jar, blew out a heavy anxious breath, and with a determined grimace on his face said, “I’m a Big, Strong Giant and I can open any old thing I want to…AARGH!” He screamed out a breath and made a gallant try. Then he tried to twist the lid again, “AArgh!” But the third and meeker aargh faded to a faint sound of surrender and out-and-out exhaustion.
Libby covered her mouth and giggled, as she watched the unyielding lid show no signs, whatsoever, of movement. That caused Lux’s cheeks to flush the very brightest red with a hint of orange. He then placed the Apricus jar between his bony knees and used the hem of his waist shirt to tightly grip and twist the stubborn lid right off with a startling… squeak POP! It was beyond breathtaking to see the brilliant light burst forth, delightfully dance off the walls, and nearly swallow the entire room whole.
“Well done!” Bochord commended with a joyful clap of his enormous paws and a deep, hearty roar of laughter. He took pleasure in their surprised and delighted faces. “That’s a sure sign that the story is ready.”
As he said it he stood, at the ready, by an old world Gutenberg printing press, solidly stationed in the middle of the library workshop. Then Bochord, with some help from his little elfin friend Libby, slipped a canvas workshop apron over his head. Lux assisted him a bit with the crossover ties in the back, and then handed him the opened Apricus jar still spewing untamed light everywhere. Some of it bounced off of Lux, Libby, and Mrs. Beaver. It didn’t disturb her slumber.
Bochord examined the quirky contents one last time and poured its shiny ingredients onto leather ink dabbers, which one of the master printing clerks held in each of his outstretched hands. The experienced printer ever so lightly sloshed and brushed the remarkable fluid onto the machine’s blank type and then inserted an extra special translation parchment into the medieval printing press. Translating refined chimney smoke back into the readable words of C.S. Lewis would require only the finest paper made from recycled linen cloth, woven from Job’s tears.
When ready, an additional apprentice would firmly grasp a long, thin handle to turn a rather large wooden screw. It was as big as a small child. It would be slowly wound down and press a flat square surface against the blank type, ink, and linen parchment. In preparation, the master printer continued to add, slosh, and brush a little more ink at a time, then rub the dabbers, against each other again, to distribute it evenly. He finally applied it to the inscrutable blank type, one last time, with deliberate unhurried motions. It was well known that printing imagination couldn’t be rushed. Amazingly, over time, the miraculous ink transformed into the exact type and words that had been written in one of C.S. Lewis’ incinerated works called, The Only Spaceship Closet in the Universe.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Bochord got everything set for story time, many of the younglings began to trickle in. They curiously gazed as he turned one of the emptied Apricus jars upside down and peered into it. He then winked at the children and dipped his long furry Polar Bear finger deep inside the jar, as though he were scooping out extra skimmings of honey or jam. Then he removed his finger, waggled it and flicked off everything still left inside. Amazingly, each time he shook his paw, images of orbiting planets and twinkling stars appeared. There were “oohs” and “ahs” from everyone as planets and countless stars popped into existence and circled right above the heads of the mesmerized children. Eight planets in all, if you counted the sun and moon. Bochord walked to the edge of the known planets saying each of the names as he did, “Sun, Venus, Earth, Moon, Mercury, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn makes eight.” With a thoughtful finger to his lips, Bochord looked up and into the dark expanding ocean of space with a pensive expression. That was indeed the most foreboding and mysterious thing of all, he thought, and said to the children, “Whoever made all of this must be very smart and powerful indeed.”
The entire commotion woke Mrs. Beaver again and caused the busy Max Burrow, a volunteer gopher, to yelp and quickly duck for cover.
“Yes, this will set the stage rather nicely for today’s story,” Bochord happily declared. Just then he got the thumbs-up from the master printer and retrieved the linen parchment from the old press. “Hmm, okay” he said, studying it closely, his eyes lingering down the page with the greatest of interest.
The children played along and echoed each of his sounds in gleeful anticipation, “Hmm, I see,” Tommy said, giggling with his ornery buddies. One little girl was so overcome with excitement that she felt altogether dizzy and fainted dead away when she heard Bochord say, “Oh, my goodness!” Her best friends cradled her head against their shoulders and patted her awake before story time began.
“Ah, yes, the far land in this story will do just fine, but you must know before we start that it will take us way beyond these planets, past the dark expanding ocean of space,” Bochord revealed. “Today it appears that we shall seek out the new Capitol of Skopos.” He pointed just beyond all the planets and stars.
“Oh, it seems so especially far away,” said one timid little mouse while eating a dry morsel of bread. He knew if he traveled so far from home, he might not make it back in time for his cheesy soup dinner. The stories all seemed so real that they sometimes forgot it was only a story, but from the looks on the children’s faces they were relieved to know it.
“Yes, I’m afraid it may take us some time, but even though we’ll travel long, the land is never far for those wanting to go there. Do you want to go?” Bochord asked.
They all nodded, but their young minds didn’t really know what his riddles meant or what dangerous places or people might live beyond the dark edges of space and time.
“Let’s see,” Bochord said looking at the parchment with a grin, “as time and history unfolds, where do we begin…over here…or over there?”
“You must begin by saying, Once Upon A Time,” one bright, if not overly rambunctious little boy, on the front row, blurted out.
Bochord wisely nodded and then glimpsed the shadow of someone in the back of the room coming nearer. It caused the children to slowly move aside as though this person had, at that moment, just parted the Red Sea.
CHAPTER FIVE
“He’s quite right,” interrupted a jovial man wearing a brown tweed jacket and cradling an unlit Comoy pipe in his right hand. “You can start a good story anywhere, but you can’t really begin a great story unless it begins with, “Once Upon A Time.” Now, can you children?” he asked, as he slipped the pipe between a slightly pursed lips smile and winked.
To be continue....NOVEMBER 2020.
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