WINNIE THE POOH IS A SERIES BY ALAN A. MILNE
AMERICAN MCGEE'S ALICE BELONGS TO EA GAMES
Note: This chapter also borrows from another work by Milne, the poem Vespers
Little boy kneels at the foot of the bed, droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.
"I AM TIRED OF EVERYONE MAKING A FOOL OF ME!" A voice echoes from the kitchen, in the floor below.
Followed by a quiet plea, just an itsy bitsy tiny little whisper in comparison. "Please, Alexander, don't shout, Christopher Robin is sleeping."
Oh-Oh. Daddy came home angry again. And surely smelling funny too.
The little boy tries to ignore this voices. Around him, his plush toys watch with attention. One could have said they were silently praying too.
God bless Mummy. I know that's right. Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight? The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot. Oh! God Bless Daddy—I quite forgot.
"THIS IS MY HOUSE! I AM THE ONE WHO BREAKS HIS BACK WORKING TO BRING MONEY FOR YOU TO WASTE IT! YOU'RE NOT TELLING ME NOT TO SHOUT IN MY OWN HOME!"
"Alexander, please..." Again that quiet-as-a-mouse voice, that intimidated, conciliatory, not-as-big-as-you voice.
The child cringed a little but tried to ignore the screams from downstairs once again. He was surrounded by friendly eyes. God Himself was hearing his prayers. He tried to find comfort on that. However, just to help things, he got up and grabbed his plushies one by one, until he was practically surrounded by them, and it almost looked like they were praying in a crowd. With Pooh Bear on his lap, joining his hands as well, he tried to continue.
But Daddy downstairs wouldn't stop yelling, in spite of Mummy's attempts to calm him down.
Furious steps, a door burst open.
"Alexander! What are you doing with that...? No! ALEXANDER, NO! NO!"
Christopher Robin jumped when there was a detonation and Mummy suddenly stopped shouting. A very deep silence followed.
Thanks to that, he could hear the floorboards crack under a pair of big feet.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
"Christopher! Christopher Robin!" Daddy called him with a gruffly voice.
His little heart raced, looked around, at all those beady little eyes, like eagerly expecting his reaction. Christopher Robin barely noticed he was holding Pooh's hand tight.
"Your father is calling you! Come here this instant!"
He let it go, letting his dear friend drop onto the carpet, and ran to hide inside the wardrobe. He went as deep into it as he could, curled up against himself until he thought he occupied as little space as possible. Just a tiny bulge among the clothes.
"When I say come, you COME, you little bastard! Don't make me angry!"
He heard the steps all around. When Daddy stopped and slowly opened the door, making it creak, Christopher Robin held his breath and tried to suppress the trembling taking over him.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
"Come say your prayers, boy!" Daddy exclaimed, pushing the toys away and looking under the bed.
Of course, the next logical place to look was the wardrobe.
Christopher Robin closed his eyes firmly.
Daddy opened the door with violence. He found nothing but a mess of clothes and toys he stirred a little bit, not finding any boy in there, for he was hiding in the opposite side, not making a noise, not moving an inch.
That made Daddy angrier, if that was even possible. He drew back, stepping on Piglet, kicking him out of his way next, and running around after that.
"CHRISTOPHER ROBIN! YOU ARE BOTHERING ME AS MUCH AS YOUR STUPID MOTHER AND BY GOD, YOU'LL END UP LIKE HER!"
Christopher Robin heard him look all around the upper floor, bursting every door open, even broke something. Where are you, where are you?!, he shouted again and again, but of course he didn't come out. Daddy went up and downstairs, shouting, breaking, calling, for what seemed like hours. He went back to the bedroom, like expecting to find him there, perhaps for not having looked right. He heard him mutter to himself in frustration.
Then, another shot, which again made him flinch.
No, don't! He will find you! Don't move, don't move.
Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares!
So he didn't move, he didn't make a sound. Not even when he heard movement and voices caused by many people in the house.
Four hours later, the door opened and a fat face with a mustache gazed at him with surprise.
"There is a boy in here!" He announced to his partners, who were dressed like him with a clean and elegant uniform with shiny buttons. "Are you all right, sonny?"
Christopher Robin kept his lips sealed and his posture did not change a little bit.
"Come. It is all over." The man offered his hand to take.
The child did not change his posture, just stared at the gloved hand extended towards him.
"I am a policeman: no one is ever going to hurt you while I am around."
Since he was not cooperating, the man gently got him out of the wardrobe. Once out, he placed his hand on his shoulder and led him out of the room.
On the way, he found Daddy's shoes showing from under a blanket—he didn't see more because the man forced him to turn his head away from that. But he couldn't avoid him looking at his toy friends, scattered all around. Drops of blood and brain fell over them, making them almost look like a chicken pox pandemic had taken over the Hundred Acre Wood. Something very red had left a mark on Eeyore's face, almost making him smile for the first time ever. Christopher Robin couldn't find Roo anywhere, while Kanga was lying on her pouch, her tail bent.
Where was Pooh? There he was: Daddy had pushed him until he ended up near the door. In his way. It would have been as easy as to just stretch his hand and grab him. But Christopher Robin didn't. He didn't do anything.
For ten years, he barely did or said anything at all.
1938
Anyone would have taken the young man's demeanor as insolence, but not at Saint Albert. They knew Christopher Robin was not a man of many words—barely one at all—and never looked at people to the eyes when they talked to him. He wasn't like that when he first came and he was not going to change his ways now that he was an adult. He...well, at least he was not wearing a straitjacket, which was something. The poor boy. He was, thus, excused from rude behavior like this.
"We would love you to stay, but regulations are clear. You are now of age and it is time that you become your own person."
Mr. Berrycloth did all the talking. Christopher Robin had no complaints about him, even if he looked angry at the old man. When the director told him he regretted that his time was over and he had to leave, he knew he meant it. Some from the staff were insincere, but Mr. Berrycloth was not.
"I know, the outside world can be scary. But you are young, strong, full of life—you'll do well. I can recommend you to a factory where they make all sort of tin kitchenware. The owner is an old acquaintance of mine and he has given a chance to some of our former children. But you are free to choose the path you want; it is only a suggestion. I have it understood that the country is in need of young men, seeing how things are turning dire in the continent, with that deranged German..."
A subtle eyebrow raise. Christopher Robin noticed. Mr. Berrycloth was possibly thinking to himself that the situation had to get desperate before the Army admitted him, if it wasn't for peeling potatoes. Because United Kingdom needed young blood, yes, but probably expected a little competence. Dimwitted lunatics like him, who didn't speak a word even if you punch them or look at the enemy to the face, who couldn't get over something happening in their childhood, were completely useless. He was bound to get rejected. He should be happy about it, right? Many men would have given an arm to have his excuses.
"You are young." Mr. Berrycloth repeated, taking off his glasses to clean them with the tip of his vest. "All paths are open."
He put his glasses back on and got up to place a friendly hand on his shoulder, a gesture to which Christopher Robin didn't react. He didn't thank him for all of these years, or anything. What should he be thanking him for? For leaving him in the streets alone? He just stood up and left the office without having opened his lips once.
They were waiting for him outside. Someone probably told them.
After all of these years, he didn't know their names. He never bothered to find out; there were a few occasions when someone addressed them but he didn't retain the way they called them. They were four, approximately fourteen, all of them. Definitely younger than he was. That made the whole issue more embarrassing. They had a leader, a boy with big teeth and nose who smelled like garlic. Christopher Robin had no idea of what brought him to this place, but he was sure of something: he was not the kind of baby a mother would regret leaving in a basket at the door of an orphanage.
"Time to leave the nest, Robin bird!"
Amazing that they were smart enough to come up with that witticism. Christopher Robin walked away without looking at them. He didn't want to encourage them. But they didn't need it. They never needed him to do anything to make them go on. In fact, his silence had often proved to be an incentive.
"Bye, bye, kook!"
"Eighteen and you're out! Hah!"
"Sure no one's adopted you! You're unbearable!"
"If I was your Daddy, I would have blown my own head too!"
Christopher Robin still didn't take his eyes off the floor. His only reaction was walking faster, to get away from them as soon as possible—for the moment. He was afraid he would find them at the lounge and at the dorm.
"You won't be missed, weirdo!" The children reminded him, in case he had any kind of doubt about it.
Just one more night...One more night and he would get rid of those weasels...
There wasn't much Christopher Robin had to put inside the suitcase. Clothes, that was all, and not many, just the sensible amount. He was a man of no hobbies and no occupation. He was just...around. Existing. Taking space. Not much more.
Yes, he thought to himself as he closed the suitcase where he kept all of his life, no one was going to miss him. His departure would be like losing an ugly flower pot.
In fact, he considered that everyone would be happy. They wouldn't have to worry and pretend they cared about Christopher Robin, the poor dear, the poor Christopher Robin, whose father shot his mother dead and tried to kill him too before he killed himself, the son of an alcoholic, poor Christopher Robin. That orphanage was filled with children who came from houses in which one or both parents drank too much and tried to kill them. Children who, like him, had no one in the world. But he had always been the poor one, and he hated it. He hated their pity. He didn't trust it was genuine.
He had to be happy too: he was going to leave this place. No more disappointments, no more younger boys teasing and making fun of him, no more living in a limbo. Now it was sure that no one would come to take him home. Now his life was his own responsibility and could do with it as he pleased. All paths were open, as Mr. Berrycloth said.
All paths were open...That was the scary part...Because when one doesn't know which way to go, having too many options is not comforting at all.
In his bed, Christopher Robin opened his eyes to think that tomorrow he wouldn't have this bed to sleep on, no boys to share a room with, no food assured on his plate, or a roof over his head.
Enough to make sleep avoid him.
"Christopher Robin..."
He opened his eyes again and looked around. Someone had whispered his name. But who? He found no open eyes.
Just his imagination, surely.
"Christopher Robin..."
Now he turned his whole body. No, he was sure, he had heard his name clearly. He looked closer, because someone had to have called him. But no. Everyone was asleep.
A tap against the window. Like someone calling. It was just a branch from a nearby tree, hitting the glass due to the wind outside, but still...Christopher Robin stood up and walked towards it, just to see if walking around for a bit helped his mind calm down.
It was then when he saw it.
Standing in the garden, looking right at the window.
A yellow teddy bear which was waving a little, furry arm at him.
Christopher Robin's heart skipped a beat or two, not because he was witnessing a teddy bear standing and waving its arm on its own, but because he knew this toy.
It was his toy.
He named it Winnie the Pooh.
"Pooh!" He whispered so quietly not even he could hear himself.
The bear stopped waving, stood there for some moments like watching him, then walked off, into the garden.
Christopher Robin couldn't let him go! This was very strange! What was his favorite childhood toy doing there, saying hello to him? Whatever reason there was, it had to be very good!
He put his boots and coat on and, making as little noise as possible, he walked out of the building, into the garden.
It was a nice place where children could walk around and play. It looked very pretty in Springtime, when all the roses bloomed and the air was filled with their fragrance and the bees and butterflies flew all around. The whole space seemed like guarded by a good amount of pines, oaks, birches and many others whose name Christopher Robin ignored.
There he was. It almost seemed like Pooh had stopped to help him catch up with him.
"Pooh?" Christopher Robin called him.
The other didn't reply. He started trotting again, deep into the garden.
"Wait! Pooh!" Christopher Robin exclaimed, and chased him.
He thought he had him. And just like that, he was gone. Did he get into a bush? He didn't see that. In fact, he barely saw anything, with so many bushes in the way. He had no idea the garden had so many. There were more trees that he thought, too. They didn't even let him see the way back to the orphanage. But he didn't think of that at the moment. He forced himself to go on. It couldn't be hard to find Pooh.
After a short while, though, he noticed they were getting wilder and wilder, the forest getting thicker and thicker. The gardener hadn't get his hands on these, for what he could see. The wind made them shake and whisper, leaving him the uncomfortable feeling that someone was yelling and whispering into his very ear. He tripped with some protruding roots a couple of times. His feet walked on a carpet of orange and brown leaves and not tame grass or pavement.
He looked back. No, he couldn't even see the building. Only trees.
"...Pooh?" He timidly called.
No one answered. Only the wind, howling.
A sound startled him. A flapping. Then something which made him gasp, a figure coming out of nowhere, to perch on a branch. A brown owl. Hoot!, it exclaimed.
It looked at him with big yellow eyes.
"Hoot!...Hoot!...Who are you?" A deep voice suddenly asked.
It was coming from it, from the owl. Something more to be surprised about—to everyone but him.
"...Christopher Robin..." He replied quite timidly.
The owl tilted its head.
"Christopher Robin?" The bird repeated with incredulity.
"Yes..."
"Not possible...", Christopher Robin heard him mutter, and saw him descend to a lower branch to have a closer look at him. When realization hit the owl, its big eyes grew even bigger—Christopher Robin had no idea that was possible.
"Well, I say now..." The owl seemed both surprised and amused. "You haven't come here in a long while...I didn't even recognize you."
Here, where? Have I seen you before?, Christopher Robin wanted to ask. But he didn't need to. His mind made the connection before it came up with the question itself. If he had seen Pooh, it wouldn't be strange if this owl was...
"Owl..." He said out loud.
"Of course it is me, what did you think?" Owl flapped his wings. "Did you forget about me?"
Christopher Robin had no answer to that.
"What are you doing here, in Saint Albert?" He asked instead.
"Saint Albert? What is that?"
"The...place where we are."
"Oh. I have the feeling your sense of direction is a little bit disrupted. It must be this blasted wind. You have come in a very bad moment, in a very blustery night. You are home, my boy. You are in the Hundred Acre Wood."
The Hundred Acre Wood?
The Hundred Acre Wood...
He used to picture himself in it. A big, green, peaceful forest where he could run and play all he wanted. A place where he had everything he could need, a lot of space to explore, things to do. The place where his best friends lived. The Hundred Acre Wood...
Surely children see things way better than they actually are. Christopher Robin looked around and didn't find that bright, lively forest of his childhood days. All the colors had faded and the trees seemed sick, twisted, scary. The sun didn't shine above his head. This was not the kind of place a child would like to get lost in.
"It looks...different..." Christopher Robin admitted out loud.
"Everything is. You have been gone for long. Many things have happened while you were away."
Christopher Robin wondered what could have turned the Wood into this gray place.
"Have you seen Pooh, Owl?"
"Pooh? Our old friend Winnie the Pooh? That Pooh?"
"Yes, that Pooh. I am looking for him."
Owl stayed in silence for a moment, almost like considering what answer he was going to give him.
"Oh...Well...No one has seen Pooh in a...long, long time..."
"But I just saw him!"
"You did?"
"Yes! It is because of him that I am here! He must be around here, somewhere!"
"Oh, I wouldn't trust my eyes. These forests are quite tricky, you see. You are not the first one to swear he's seen Pooh. Sometimes...our mind can play tricks on us...when we desire to see something..."
Christopher Robin was starting to believe this was true. Talking owls? His teddy bear coming to life? Nonsense! He was an adult. Adults don't believe in such things. He had to be in his bed, dreaming. However, he had to surrender to the evidence: owl was perched in there, as real as himself, and the wind blowing through his hair was an actual sensation. This was not a dream at all.
Owl turned his head one hundred and eighty grades and looked back at Christopher Robin.
"We shouldn't stay here much longer. Quick, let's get moving. This is one bad day to be talking in the forest. Come with me. I will tell you everything you need to know." And he added before spreading his wings and flying. "Now that you are here, everything will be alright..."
Christopher Robin looked behind him, at the leaves elevating from the ground due to the wind, the murmurs it caused. He couldn't find the way back. So he guessed he had no choice but to continue. Anyway, he wanted to know. He had a very bad feeling about this. He didn't like the way Owl looked at him, his constant mutter.
'Thank goodness you have finally come back...', he heard him say.
And most of all, he needed to know why Pooh showed himself to him, when Owl mentioned no one had seen him in long.
His gaze met a claws' mark on a tree, breaking its bark, and hurried not to lose Owl too.