A Walk With A Stranger
Megan Patterson
“Man, am I tired,” I say to myself as I climb onto the bus after my last class. The driver, a grumpy old man with headphones, simply stares at me as I make my way to the back. “It’ll be a few minutes before we leave, and mine is almost the last stop. I seriously need a power nap!”
My eyes are droopy and I have no choice but to fall asleep.
All of a sudden, the bus jerks forward a bit and I sit up straight in the seat. I don’t recognize anything around me. Even the bus driver is different. How long have I been sleeping? I feel very strange, like something weird has happened without my knowing it.
“Last stop!” the driver calls. I am the last person on the bus. I am hesitant, but get off the bus all the same. I’ve been dropped very near the outskirts of The-Middle-of Nowhere, which is very clear because I can see nothing ahead of me. Behind me lays a small town of some sort, but it seems so far away. In the early-morning light, I can make out a shadowy, solitary figure quickly approaching me.
“Hello!” I shout. The man just looks at me. “Good morning!” I say.
“What
do you mean?” he says. “Do you
wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or
not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good
on?”[I]
“Well, gosh,” I say. “I hadn’t really thought about it like that.”
“Perhaps you should have,” he says. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be confused about something. Could I help you?”
“Well, would you, perchance, know where it is I am?” Perchance? What on earth? “You see, I think I am lost.”
“We’re not but two miles off from Oxford. I am a don there. Can you see it, over there in the distance?”
“Yes!” I exclaim. I’ve heard of Oxford before. Strange as it is, I think that I am going to be all right. “You’re a don at Oxford? That’s a professor, right?”
“Yes, yes. I teach students. Most are around your age.”
“Excellent. Well, I’m Megan. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” What am I saying? I don’t normally talk like this! This place seems to be having an odd effect on me already.
“I’m Ronald. The pleasure is mind, my young friend. Perhaps you’d like to escort me back to Oxford. You do seem to be rather out of sorts.”
“Yes, I am. Thank you. I should very much like to accompany you to Oxford.”
“What brings you to our part of the world, miss? You aren’t from around here. Your accent gives that much away right off. And then there are your clothes - ”
“I really don’t know why I’m here or how I got here, now that I think about it. I’ve been thinking about a class project and, well, I got on a bus at school and the next thing I knew, here I am.”
“Well, don’t fret. God will surely take care of you and guide your steps. He’ll bring you safely home.”
“Are you a believer?” I ask as we walk along the winding green paths.
“Yes,
indeed. I am a devout Roman Catholic.
My mother converted when I was young and I just followed suit!” [II]
“Wow. It isn’t very often that I meet Christian professors! I’m a Protestant myself, but a Christian all the same.”
“Excellent, excellent! No hard feelings, I promise. And what do you hope to make of yourself once you graduate, Megan?”
“I don’t know, exactly. I have ideas, but I’d really like to write. I’m taking classes for it right now back in the United States.”
“Really? We have something in common because I like to write, too. Several things I’ve written have been published, and there are more on the way. Megan. Megan. Hmmm. That’s a Welsh name, isn’t it? I’ve always had a fondness for the Welsh language. It has inspired much of my writing. And I love Finnish, too. They are beautiful languages, really. They just glide off the tongue, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry to say that I don’t think I’ve ever heard either one spoken,” I admit. “What other things influence your writing, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“No, no. I don’t mind at all. Nature, my friend. Nature has played a large role in my writing. Everything around us now and especially images from my childhood all have left their mark.”
“How so?” I ask, waiting for his reply.
“Well, to begin, I love the woods. There is an indescribable beauty in everything you see there. The way the branches sway in the breeze and the sunlight dances through the leaves are so unique to these trees. I wish everyone could really see the wonders that I can see.”
“That was kind of poetic. Do you write poetry?”
“No, not ordinarily. I write fiction. Fantasy literature, I suppose.”
“Oh,” I say slightly disappointed. It is not often that I would pick up a fantasy novel. I tend to prefer the nineteenth century – more Gothic literature. Or maybe I just think I do because that is all I really get to read lately. Either way, though, I don’t know much about fantasy literature.
“Well, what other things, besides the woods?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The rolling hills of England’s countryside have been an inspiration for many writers. And naturally, the people I have encountered have had an impact. Nature is not all there is to a place. People bring a whole different dimension to my work. You can’t simply interpret people because people are constantly interpreting things, which, inevitably, will change them somehow; sometimes in ways too subtle to so much as notice. Oh! And Africa! I was born there, and though I only spent a few years there, I can still remember –“ he stops at this point and gazes southward. I guess toward Africa.
I walk by his side, observing the landscape, taking in my surroundings while quietly reflecting on what the man has been saying.
“Well,” he finally says, “we are almost to town. Have you anywhere to go from there?”
“No,” I say. “I am completely at your mercy.”
“Well
then, you must come to my house.
Edith, 
my wife will be glad to
have another woman around. She has
been largely out-numbered most of her married life, even once Priscilla was
born. But that is what happens
when you have three sons and a husband.
One daughter makes little difference. But come!”
“All of this country air has made me quite hungry. Thank you for the invitation!”
“That’s right. Besides, I am rather enjoying our talk. It wouldn’t be right to turn you out on your own in the middle of a good conversation!” He is smiling at me. “I can show you some photographs of some places that have inspired me, so to speak, later on at my office.”
Intrigued, I agree.
We slowly approach the house and a woman’s voice calls to us.
“Are you ready for lunch, you big bum?” she asks.
“”I feel ready for anything,” he answers. “But most of all, I should like to go walking today and explore the valley. ”[III] He is chuckling.
“I
thought that is what you were doing all morning. Stop quoting yourself and come inside. Samson will be here any minute to lunch
with us.”
“Edith, I would like you to meet Megan. She is from –“
“Texas,” I say.
“Texas. She is a little lost. I thought we might help her out.”
“Oh, pleased to meet you, Megan,” she says, sticking her head out the door. “Do come in, won’t you?”
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Well, come in our go out, but don’t make me keep the door open or the flies will get to the butter again!” She sounds stern, but is smiling as she’s talking.
We walk into the house, careful to close the door behind us, to join Edith who has prepared a lunch of roast beef, potatoes, and steamed carrots. It beats the socks off my usual peanut butter and jelly sandwich!
We are all about to sit down when someone knocks at the door.
“That must be Sam! Stay right here,” Edith instructs us. “I’ll get it.” She runs around the corner and brings back an older, friendly-looking gentleman.
“Why, hello Ronald! And who is this young lady?”
“Sam,” Ronald says, “we’d like you to meet Megan. Picked her up on the side of the road not an hour ago. But she’s a nice-looking vagrant, so we invited her on for lunch.”
“Nice
to meet you Megan. I am Samson
Gamgee, but you can call me Sam.”
“That’s funny,” I say, forgetting my manners. “Your name sounds like one I’ve heard in a book!”
“Aye, well, perhaps you have, miss,” he says, winking at Ronald. “ I suppose anything is possible. You know, little Ronnie here was a neighbor of mine. I’ve known him since he was a young troublemaker. Don’t let him give you too much grief about things!”
Grinning, I tell him I won’t.
Well all bow our heads and thank the Lord for the food we have before us. Then we eat.
When we finish, we bid farewell to Edith and Sam and walk on to his office at Oxford.
“Tell me more,” I beg. “I want to know more about what influences your writing, how you come up with your ideas. I’m taking a creative writing class right now and I’m desperate for advice.”
“Well, well! You are quite the eager student! All right then. I’ll tell you. You are too young now to have seen all I have seen in my lifetime. I was in the War. Did I tell you that before?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, I was. I think that everything I experienced through that – friendships, casualties, and war-torn countries, massacred earth –all of these things influenced me. They all touched me deeply and I know in some of my writing, those experiences come through.”
I think about this for a moment. We are almost to the gates of Oxford. I glance at him and realize that he reminds me of my grandfather. Both have this undeniable twinkle in their eyes and warm smile.
“Some
places in my books in particular were written with miles and miles of seething,
tortured earth in mind.”[IV]
“I hope I never have to go through that. My brother is a Marine, though, and he probably will have to.”
“I wish I hadn’t. I don’t wish war upon anyone.”
We come upon a building and enter it. Through the old halls, we walk side-by-side, and I can’t help but think of all the great people who walked these halls before.
“Welcome to Merton College,” he says and then he begins to sing, and though barely audible, I can just make out the words:
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen,
of meadow-flowers and
butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were,
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a
spring
That I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
That I have never seen;
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago,
And people who will see a world
That I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and
think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door. [V]
Here he
stops singing and opens the door to his office. On the walls hang fantastic pictures of different
places. The Hobbit sits on
one of the bookshelves. It looks
like a first edition. My
Children’s Literature professor would love to get her hands on that! Maps of places I’ve only heard of in
books adorn the back of his doors, easily catching my eye.
“Wow,” I say. “This is incredible.”
“Thank you,” he says, noting my interest in the maps. “I’m still working on others.”
“You made these maps?”
“Yes, I love maps. These maps help me in my writing. They help me figure out where I am, where my characters are in a story, and where they are going. It helps me to visualize the places so I can imagine and therefore describe the conditions my characters are facing. Does that make sense?”
“Oh, yes. It sounds like a wonderful idea.”
There is a knock at the door. A man is standing just outside. Ronald asks him to come in.
“Clive,” he says, “this is Megan. I was about to show her some photographs.”
“Splendid! Hello, Megan. I am Clive Staples Lewis. I go by C. S., though. If your name was Clive Staples, wouldn’t you?” He laughs in spite of himself.
“You are THE C.S. Lewis?” I ask, astounded.
“The only one I know of,” he replies. “Ronald, if you could come to see me later on, I would be most appreciative.”
“Of course! I will be around home at tea time, if you’d like to join me there.”
“Yes, I would. Sorry to just pop in and out like this. Very nice to meet you, Megan.” And then he was gone.
“I’m sorry, Ronald, but was that really C. S. Lewis? The man who wrote The Chronicles of Narnia?”
“Yes. You seem shocked.”
“I can’t believe I just met him. I remember reading The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe when I was younger.” I think he is amazing.
“Yes, though he was not always as gifted as he is now. God has changed that man. When I first met him, he wouldn’t hear much of God. I like to think I helped turn him around.”
“I
know his good friend, JRR Tolkien helped him along the path to Christianity.”
“My dear, I am he!” he chuckles. “And this photograph right here is of Addison’s Walk, the actual path we took when talking about Christianity. He converted shortly after one of these walks.”[VI]
Whoa! I am standing here with JRR Tolkien!
“Really?” I still can’t believe it.” Are you serious? I just had lunch with John Ronald Reuel Tolkien?”
“Indeed you did! Now, let’s take a look at these photographs.”
“Did any of them inspire The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings?”
“You tell me, Megan.”
I look over the photographs and my eyes settle on one with a sign that reads “HOB LANE.”
“That reminds me of hobbits,” I say.
“Me, too,” he responds, that twinkle in his eye brightly sparkling. “You see, Megan, places influence us in very special, sometimes surprising, ways. Now,” he says, “it is about time you be getting wherever it is you’re going.”
“Oh, yes. But do you have anything else to tell me before I go? Any advice for a girl finishing college, about to enter the ‘real world’?”
“Surely,” he says. Instead of offering me advice, he begins to sing to me.
As he sings, I begin to drift off to sleep, his words echoing in my mind:
Roads go ever, ever on
Over
rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By
streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And
through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And
under mountains in the moon.
Roads go ever, ever on
Under
cloud and under star,
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn
at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen
And
horror in the halls of stone
Look last on meadows green
And
trees and hills they long have known.[VII]
When I wake up, I am back on the Intramural bus just before my stop. I pull the cord and, when the bus stops, thank the driver as I make my exit. At least now I have an idea of how to do my project. What strange dreams I have when I am exhausted beyond belief!
