I cannot believe it has only been a few hours since my son and I began this journey, because it feels as if I've been traveling for eternity.
A dozen times I have awakened from a fitful sleep, only to have Digory tell me that we haven't arrived yet.
He sleeps now in the opposite corner, worn out from anxiety, excitement and the long journey.
Wearily I sigh and shift my position, knowing that I will have little comfort until we reach our destination.
It was so kind of my brother Andrew to offer to take us in, though I expect he was swayed to that decision by Letty.
He might be the master of the house, but I know that it is Letty who rules the servants with a strict hand, and accepts no nonsense from my strange absent minded brother.
At my side Digory stirs and I reach out to lovingly smooth his dark unruly hair and whisper gentle words of reassurance.
Since my husband's departure for India, my boy has been so brave, a true friend and source of strength as this accursed illness tightens its grip.
Throughout the countless visits by physicians, he was always ordered from the room, knowing that as soon as they left I would ask him to return so we might share this sorrow together.
I am tired of their useless words of comfort, of the looks of pity they cast my son when they think I am not looking.
I want to rage against the illness which is sapping my strength; I wish it had a physical form so that I could find a way to break its power over my life.
But such thoughts are useless, for this is a world where magic lives on only in stories.
Still I want to reject these doctors' hopeful platitudes and medicines which are supposed to restore my strength.
But I already know the truth. I have been aware of it for some time, of that subtle decline of energy, of nights spent in pain and fever; all tell me that I am close to taking my final journey.
Digory also knows. I didn't even try to conceal the truth from him, and yet he spoke before I could tell him. Sometimes I look at my boy and marvel at his quiet strength, at that look of solemnity and great wisdom I sometimes glimpse in his eyes.
He will be great one day. I know it.
Like his father he was born to pursue knowledge, to fight for those in need, and give strength to those who falter.
Ah my George chose our son's name well.
Digory.
Such a strange foreign name, many friends and relatives comment, even people I've never met cast my boy an odd look when he tells them his name.
And always I gaze coolly back at every one, challenging them to say anything which could hurt my brave boy.
At first he didn't understand those quick furtive and puzzled glances, until George and I took him aside and explained the origin of his name.
Digory, one who wanders. A name of strength and mystery. Yes George chose our boy's name well, for even at this tender age I see the truth of his name reflected in his eyes. His is a wandering spirit, one always eager to discover and explore new things.
His imagination is vivid, and his thirst for knowledge and stories is insatiable, so much so that his teachers find it hard to keep him interested.
The cab turns a corner sharply, and automatically Digory reaches out to clutch my hand in reassurance and comfort.
"Not far now mother," his young voice is confident and firm. "I can see the house; it's just past that lamppost there."
I offer my boy a grateful smile and gather what strength I still possess, knowing that even the short journey from the cab to my room will be exhausting.
Two minutes later we arrive, to the sound of Letty's brisk welcome and sharp orders for the servants to help with our luggage.
We are led to our rooms, and I am glad to see that Digory has been given one which is next door to me.
Andrew does not appear to greet us, but then I did not expect him to come and welcome us to his home.
Letty murmurs a feeble excuse about his being preoccupied with work, and I hasten to reassure her that it doesn't matter.
For the first time in weeks a warm smile brightens my pale features, born of the comforting knowledge that some things never change despite the passage of years and the relentless grasp of sickness.
For I know that even now, my strange brother will no doubt be pouring over some obscure ancient text by candlelight.
If only he would take an interest in Digory, he could learn so much from his uncle, who was always an eager and willing student.
Wearily I allow the maid Matilda to help unpack my belongings and assist me to undress and climb into bed.
A light meal is brought, and I struggle to finish the bowl of rich broth and a slice of fresh bread.
Digory sits beside me, contentedly devouring his heavier fare of roasted chicken, potatoes and vegetables.
Silence reigns save for the crackling of the log fire and the clatter of cutlery, but it is a quiet where no words need be spoken. It is enough that we are here at last, together, and are clinging to the hope that the doctors here may be able to offer some advice or cure to restore my health.
The trays removed, Digory looks up at me hopefully, and I know what he is about to ask.
"Mother, do you feel well enough to tell me a story?" How I want to say yes, to say that I have the strength and endurance of Scheherazade and will tell him a thousand tales.
But the journey has exhausted me and so I reluctantly answer.
"Not tonight Digory, I'm too tired from our journey. Perhaps tomorrow, if I'm feeling stronger."
He expects that answer, struggles to suppress his disappointment, and yet I glimpse it in those dark eyes as he bends to kiss me goodnight.
He closes the door softly and I reach to put out the candle at my bedside.
My final thoughts before sleep claims me are of George, a prayer that he may soon return home, and that I will be granted a few more precious years with the two people God has given me to love.
Note from the authoress: At the moment my favorite of Lewis's Chronicles to write about is The Magician's Nephew.
We don't know much about Digory's mother, so I thought I'd write this short story from her perspective.
Digory will also have a chapter or two, as I'll cover important scenes involving him and his mother, some from the book, others from my imagination.
This story was inspired by the excellent radio adaptation of The Magician's Nephew done by Focus On The Family Radio Theatre.
If you haven't heard those productions of the Narnia Chronicles they are amazing.
The title for this story comes from the awesome musical Phantom of The Opera. Also I looked up the name Digory, and found that it meant the lost one or one who goes astray.
I hope you enjoyed this first chapter.
Thanks for reading.