PROLOGUE

IN WHICH CHRISTOPHER ROBIN

AND POOH COME TO AN ENCHANTED PLACE

AND WE LEAVE THEM THERE

It was, as it most usually was, a beautiful day in the Hundred-Acre Wood. The sky was blue, unblemished by clouds. The air was sweet, touched by the hint of honey that wafted from a familiar bear's pot, and a gentle breeze kissed the cheeks of the friends who had gathered around a picnic table. But while the setting was idyllic and lent itself to happy thoughts, the expressions on the faces of the friends were rather, well, sad.

Looking around the table, Winnie the Pooh tried to ignore the rumbling, grumbling sound coming from his tummy. He wasn't positive, but he had a feeling that now was not the time to mention he was hungry, even if they were at a picnic table — which, in his experience, was usually a place people picnicked. And picnics usually involved food. His tummy grumbled again.

“We all know why we're here.”

Rabbit's serious voice brought a quick stop to thoughts of food. Pooh looked over and watched as Rabbit walked to the head of the picnic table. “I have asked my friend Eeyore” — he paused and nodded in the direction of the grey donkey, whose head was hanging down, as usual — “I have asked him to propose a rissolution.”

Pooh cocked his head. Rissolution? He did not like when Rabbit used such big words. He opened his mouth to ask what a rissolution was, but before he could, Eeyore lumbered over to stand by Rabbit. He placed a piece of paper in the middle of the table and then proceeded to straighten it out — for a very long time. Finally, he cleared his throat and began to read:“‘Christopher Robin is going,'” he said, his voice slow and deep and, as usual, devoid of any happiness. “‘At least, I think he is. Where? Nobody knows. But he is going.'” Eeyore paused and his heavy brows furrowed as he looked over the words on the page. “I mean, ‘he goes,'” he corrected himself. Then he went on. “‘Do we care? We do. Very much. Anyhow, we send our love. The end.'”

The sullen donkey stopped speaking and slowly lifted his head from the paper. The other animals were silent. Pooh was looking beyond him at the large banner they had hung above the picnic table. The words FAIRWELL CHRISTOPHER ROBEM were written across it — not quite straight — in a mishmash of colors. Eeyore let out a long, slow sigh. “If anyone wants to clap,” he said finally, with little enthusiasm in his voice, “now is the time to do it.”

As if on cue, Christopher Robin himself walked into the clearing.

“That's a lovely poem, Eeyore,” he said in a kind voice. The seven-year-old had been hanging back at the edge of the clearing until Eeyore had finished. Now he brushed back his auburn bangs, which had grown long and shaggy over the summer months, and looked around at all his friends. He felt a lump in his throat. He loved the odd collection of animals more than anything in the world. He loved sweet, innocent Piglet, with his squeaky voice and fear of, well, everything. There was Kanga and her joey, Roo, and Tigger, who, even during this somber occasion, couldn't stop moving. Owl and Rabbit had remained serious the entire time, while Eeyore had managed to make the going-away poem sound even sadder than it was supposed to be.

And of course, there was his best friend, Winnie the Pooh. He was going to miss them all so much. They had spent so many long days together, playing in the woods behind his family's house. Without them around, the summer would have been painfully slow — and painfully lonely. Mother and Father were not exactly fun playmates.

Knowing that the others were looking at him intently, eager to see if he liked his banner and poem, Christopher tried hard to smile. But he could tell that the others knew he was sad. Especially Pooh.

“It's just too bad it's over,” the bear said, pulling his red shirt down over his belly. “I would have liked it to go for a while longer.”

With a nod of agreement, Christopher Robin walked over to the picnic table. His shirt and shorts, which had fit at the beginning of the summer, were now too small — and he found himself pulling them down in a similar fashion to how Pooh tugged on his clothes. (Although Christopher knew that Pooh's reason for a tight shirt wasn't so much growing up as growing rounder from the abundant honey he ate.)

Jumping up onto the picnic table so he was closer in height to Christopher Robin, Piglet approached the boy. Even now, after countless hours of playing and adventuring together, the small pig seemed nervous. Christopher Robin tried not to smile as Piglet, whose expression was far too big and serious for such a tiny creature, held out a small bag. “I m-made you this sack of Hundred-Acre Wood haycorns,” he stammered. “They are my very f-f-favorite snack. Wherever you may go, they will remind you of the Hundred-Acre Wood.”

Christopher Robin took the haycorns solemnly. “Thank you, Piglet,” he said. The little creature nodded but didn't take his eyes off the sack of haycorns. “Would you like one?” Christopher added, noting the hungry way Piglet was eying the treats. To his credit, Piglet shook his head. But his eyes stayed fixated on the bag. “Well, I don't think I'll need any help remembering, but I shall treasure them always,” Christopher finally said, giving Piglet another sincere thank-you. He was trying desperately to stay happy, but seeing how sad his friends were and the trouble they had gone to to give him a farewell picnic just made Christopher even sadder than he had been when he had woken that morning.

The minutes leading up to when he had entered the wood that day had been utterly miserable. His mother had insisted he pack before he could play. Then she had told him to clean out the nursery and put his “baby” toys away, as he wouldn't need them now that he was a big boy attending big-boy boarding school. Despite a lengthy, and in his mind well-argued protest about the importance of keeping things as reminders, Mother wouldn't change her mind. So that had meant more time inside, sorting and putting things in storage. He hadn't even been able to enjoy his last lunch, even though it was his favorite — a peanut butter, banana, and honey sandwich — because Father had arrived with the car right in the middle and had started packing up all their luggage. There had been one brief moment when Christopher was sure they were going to leave before he could escape to the woods, but then, thankfully, Father had been distracted, pulled away to fix a broken pipe. Christopher had taken his chance and slipped away.

Arriving in the wood, he had hoped to get a break from the sadness he felt; but instead he found himself saying good-bye and feeling all the weepier by the moment.

Suddenly, the air was knocked from his lungs as Tigger threw his arms around Christopher and squished his face right up against the boy's. “I'm gonna miss ya, I am!” he said, bouncing up and down on his tail as he squeezed Christopher tight.

Christopher couldn't help himself — he let out a laugh. Tigger was always good for a laugh. And he provided Christopher with the distraction he greatly needed. “I'll miss you, too, Tigger,” Christopher said. Then he turned to the others, determined to make the best of the rest of the picnic. “Now, c'mon, everyone! We still have pudding!”

*　　*　　*

The rest of the afternoon sped by in a flurry of pudding, playing, and feasting. As the sun sank lower and the woods grew darker, Christopher Robin's friends began to fall asleep, one by one, until soon the only two left awake were Christopher and Pooh. The others lay on or around the picnic table, peacefully slumbering. Well, most of them were peacefully slumbering. Even in his sleep, Tigger's feet and tail were in constant motion.

Pooh's nose was buried in a pot of honey. Around him, already emptied of their contents, were eight other pots. Most were tipped over, their insides honey free, and even their outsides licked completely clean. Pooh felt a party was not a party without honey — lots and lots of honey. And he would never let any of the sweet goodness go to waste.

“Come on, Pooh!”

Christopher's voice startled the bear and he pulled his nose free from the pot. Christopher Robin was on his feet, standing by the edge of the clearing. Pooh got to his own feet and scampered — or rather waddled as fast as he could — over to his friend. “Where are we going, Christopher Robin?” he asked.

In the light of the setting sun, the little boy's hair seemed redder than usual, and in the wake of the excitement from the day, his cheeks looked flushed, while his freckles stood out. His yellow shirt, which had been clean when he'd arrived in the wood, was now stained from pudding and grass and various other party fun. Even the shirt's stiff white collar was sagging. Despite the long day, Christopher's brown eyes were shining and bright. “Nowhere,” he said finally, answering Pooh.

“One of my favorite places,” Pooh replied happily. Reaching up his paw, he waited for Christopher Robin to take it. The friends then turned and headed deeper into the woods together.

They walked in silence for a while, each happy to just be with the other. As they went, they recounted many of the adventures they had been on, often passing sights that triggered fond memories. They saw the tree where Pooh had tried to trick some honey bees by pretending to be a rain cloud only to end up landing — along with Christopher Robin — in a mudhole. They walked by Rabbit's house, where Pooh had gotten stuck, and then meandered under Owl's old home, which had once been blown down in a storm. Finally, they arrived in the large meadow hidden deep within the Hundred-Acre Wood. The sun was hovering over the horizon, turning the green grass gold.

As the two friends crossed through the meadow and toward Pooh Sticks Bridge, Christopher Robin looked down at his friend and asked, “What do you like doing best in the world, Pooh?”

“Well, what I like best ...” He stopped and thought for a moment, tapping a finger against his chin. He furrowed his brow and made thinking noises. Arriving at an answer, he began again. “Well, what I like best is me and Piglet going to see you and you saying, ‘What about a little Something?' And me saying, ‘Well, I shouldn't mind a little Something.' And it being a hummy sort of day outside.” Pooh looked up, proud of his answer.

Christopher Robin nodded but didn't say anything else until they arrived at Pooh Sticks Bridge. Peering over the edge of the bridge into the water below, he gazed at his reflection. He certainly didn't look any older than he had at the beginning of the summer. But his mother kept telling him he was a big boy now and that he had to act like one. He wasn't sure what that exactly meant. But he didn't think he liked it.

“What I like doing best is Nothing,” he said finally.

Pooh cocked his head. “How do you do Nothing?” he asked, confused.

“It's when people call out, ‘What are you going to do, Christopher Robin?' And you say, ‘Oh, nothing,' and then you go and do it,” he answered as though that were the most obvious answer in the whole world.

Pooh's eyes grew wide as understanding dawned. “Ah, yes!” he cried. “Doing Nothing often leads to the very best Something,” he said.

Delighted that they understood one another's favorite things, the pair moved on. While he hadn't intended to, Christopher realized he was taking a farewell tour of his favorite spots in the Hundred-Acre Wood. The meadow, Pooh Sticks Bridge, the woods themselves — they all held such precious memories of the many adventures he had been on with his best friend. But none of them were as special to him as the Enchanted Place — the spot they finally arrived at just as the last rays of the sun snuck out over the horizon.

Below them, a valley stretched, its bottom already dark in the early evening. Looking out, Christopher felt his stomach drop as deep as the valley floor. He could walk all he wanted, but there was no denying what was to come. He let out a sigh that was sadder and longer than even Eeyore's saddest and longest sigh. “Pooh?” he said, turning to his friend. “I'm not going to do Nothing anymore.”

The words struck Pooh like a slap to the face. “Never again?” he said in disbelief.

Christopher Robin shook his head. “Well, they don't let you at boarding school. They —” As he spoke, he started to sit down. He let out a yelp.

“Haycorns hurt?” Pooh asked, assuming Christopher's response was to a loose haycorn that his backside had accidentally landed on.

Christopher Robin reached into the back pocket of his shorts, pulling out the bag of haycorns Piglet had given him. “Only when you sit on them,” he said with a wry smile.

“I'll have to remember that,” Pooh said, nodding at Christopher's wisdom. Looking over, Pooh saw that his friend's face was sad. He wondered if it had anything to do with the bored-ing school he had mentioned. Pooh had never heard of a bored-ing school before. Christopher had mentioned school, but that was a fun place where someone read you stories and you got to play with new toys and be with your friends. Bored-ing school didn't sound as fun. From the sound of Christopher's voice, it actually seemed like a very un-fun place. Pooh didn't like to think of his friend stuck in a place that wasn't fun or nice.

Just then, Christopher let out a sigh that seemed too big for such a small boy. “Pooh,” he said softly, his gaze trained on the meadow in front of him. “When I'm off not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?”

Pooh cocked his head. “Just me?” he asked. “Where will you be?”

“I'll be right here,” Christopher answered. Lifting his hand, he tapped Pooh's “Thinking Spot” — the side of his head — with his finger.

That made sense to Pooh, and he nodded. Christopher was always in his Thinking Spot. That was where best friends were supposed to be — usually. “But what should happen if you forget about me?” Pooh asked, the thought hitting him hard. He felt sick suddenly, like when he discovered he had run out of honey. Or when he ate too much honey at once.

Christopher reached over and put his arm around Pooh's shoulder. “I won't ever forget you, Pooh,” he said softly. “I promise. Not even when I'm a hundred.”

Pooh frowned in concentration as he tried to calculate how old he would be when Christopher Robin was that old. His frown grew deeper and deeper until, finally, he realized he couldn't figure it out himself and just asked.

“Ninety-nine,” Christopher replied, smiling.

Slowly, the boy got to his feet. Beside him, Pooh did the same. The sun had long since set, and while he had done his best to avoid it, he couldn't delay the inevitable. It was time for him to leave the Hundred-Acre Wood. His mother and father had made it clear — it was time to grow up. But as he looked around the place that had provided him with adventure and friends, he couldn't help wondering why growing up meant saying good-bye to the things he loved most ....

*　　*　　*

Christopher tugged at the starched white collar around his neck. It felt like it was choking him. Everything about his new school uniform felt like it was choking him, actually. The awful-looking thing, with its pressed pants and stiff jacket, complete with big ugly round buttons, had been waiting for him on his bed when he had arrived home the night before from his final trip to the Hundred-Acre Wood, along with the instruction to try it on to ensure the fit. An empty suitcase had been sitting next to the uniform with yet more instructions. These read simply: PACK.

While he had hoped that staying in the woods until nightfall would save him from the final round of packing, he had been wrong. Christopher had arrived home to a hasty dinner and was then sent to bed with a warning that they would be leaving early the next morning, and that his room better be emptied and his bags fully packed by then. Reaching his room, he hadn't had the heart or the energy to pack that night, instead falling into bed and burying his head in the pillow. Flopping over, he had seen a shooting star in the sky through his window and made a desperate wish that the morning would bring a change in his parents' hearts.

But sadly, that had not been the case. Instead of rising to the hoped-for news that he was no longer going to boarding school, he had been awakened by his mother's frantic shouts for him to hurry. He could hear his parents as they moved about the house below, checking to be sure that they had gotten everything they would need. It was unclear when they would be back next. Mr. Robin's job was growing increasingly more demanding, and with Christopher off at boarding school, the house could very well go empty until the following summer — if Christopher was that lucky.

“Christopher! Son! Let's go!”

Christopher's shoulders tensed at his father's voice. It was rare for the man to talk to him directly, leaving that up to Mrs. Robin for the most part. But ever since they had informed him that he would be going to boarding school, Christopher had seen a change in how his father treated him. It was almost like he no longer thought of Christopher as a baby (babies being the wife's domain, in Mr. Robin's opinion) but rather as a grown-up. He had even, on occasion, tried to engage Christopher in conversations, telling him about things that went on at his job or what had happened on the train ride to the country that particular visit. There was a part of Christopher that thought it was nice to have his father's attention for once.

But there was another part of him that thought it was strange and uncomfortable. He had, in all honesty, grown used to being somewhat ignored by his father — especially when they were at the country house. That was part of what had sent him to the Hundred-Acre Wood in the first place. The house had always felt confining when his father was there for the weekends, and he had looked for a place to escape, where he could make noise and have some fun without fear of his father getting upset.

“Christopher!”

His father's voice called out again, less comforting this time. Grabbing the suitcase off his bed, Christopher took one last look around his room. He said a silent good-bye to the toys on the shelves of the worn bookcase and a farewell to the pictures on the wall. He nodded to the collection of stuffed animals on the single chair in one corner, his eyes lingering on the stuffed bear with the red shirt. Then he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Downstairs, the front door to the house was open, revealing a car sitting in the driveway. His father and mother stood beside it. While mere inches from each other, they seemed miles apart. Their eyes were gazing in opposite directions: Mr. Robin's were glued to the paper in his hand; Mrs. Robin's were raised up, staring at the fluffy white clouds as they drifted through the blue sky. But upon hearing their son's footsteps, their gazes swiftly swung toward him.

“Do you have everything?” Mrs. Robin asked as her husband took the suitcase from Christopher's hand and placed it in the boot of the car.

Christopher shrugged.

“Then we're off,” Mr. Robin said, sliding into the back seat and gesturing for the rest of his family to do the same. Catching sight of his son's sad expression, he reached over and ruffled Christopher's hair. “Don't worry, Son,” he said, the reassuring words sounding odd coming from the large man's stern face. “Boarding school will be a grand adventure, I promise you.”

As the car began to move down the long driveway, Christopher didn't dare speak. Grand adventure? Boarding school was not going to be a grand adventure. Grand adventures were running through the Hundred-Acre Wood. Grand adventures were laying traps for the Heffalump. Grand adventures were scaling trees for honey. But as their country house faded from view, Christopher knew there was no use trying to tell his father any of that. He was going off to boarding school, and leaving his friends and adventures behind. Possibly forever.

*　　*　　*

Christopher stared down at the blank page in front of him. He was supposed to be filling it with numbers, doing arithmetic. But he found himself doodling pictures of Pooh instead.

He had been at boarding school for exactly twenty-one days, four hours, and — he risked being caught taking a glance at the large clock that hung above the blackboard — four minutes. And each one of those days, hours, and minutes had been unbearable. Every morning the students were awakened at 7:00 a.m. on the dot and expected down in the large dining hall by 7:30 for what usually consisted of tasteless porridge and tea. The teachers sat on a platform above the students, their plates heaped with things that actually smelled delicious — waffles, bacon, fresh cream, and sweet fruit. This daily ritual only served to make their own food seem that much blander in comparison.

Then it was off to classes that lasted through the afternoon. Long, dull classes held in lifeless rooms. Large windows offered a glimpse of the beautiful manicured grounds that surrounded the school, but the only time Christopher got to actually enjoy them was during their recreation period. Unlike the other classes that seemed endless, the recreation class was short and typically only allowed for a few laps around one of the large fields before the boys were sent back inside.

His father's promise that school would be an adventure was proving, as Christopher had suspected, to be woefully wrong. When they had first pulled onto the grounds and he had caught sight of a handful of young boys such as himself, he had a brief flare of hope that maybe his father would be right. The boys all seemed about his age, and most wore the same dazed expression he knew covered his own face. But his hope had been short-lived. Moving into the room he shared with two other boys, Christopher had quickly discovered that most of the boys who were students at the prestigious boarding school were dull and lifeless, like the school itself. When he had pulled out a few of his childhood books to put on the shelf above his bed, his roommates had immediately begun to tease him, calling him “baby” and asking if he “needed a hug from his mommy.” The books were hastily removed from the shelf and crammed under his bed, along with the few stuffed animals he had brought.

Since then, the teasing had only grown worse. While Christopher had spent much of his first seven years at his family's country home and had been tutored by kind governesses, the boys he now called his classmates had grown up being groomed to attend Grayford Prep. They were mean and cruel and, Christopher thought in his angrier moments, not at all the type who would be invited into the Hundred-Acre Wood.

He had tried his best to stay positive and find the bright side, just like Pooh would have done. But with each passing day, it was growing harder and harder. He wanted nothing more than to go back and see his friends and tell them how horrible it was being stuck behind the large wrought iron gates of the school. But he couldn't. Instead, he had learned to just keep his nose in his books, try to forget about the Hundred-Acre Wood, and not bring too much attention to himself. If he did that, he had discovered, he was able to go pretty much unnoticed.

Unfortunately, it didn't always work.

Sometimes, he just needed to see Pooh again. So, sometimes, he drew.

“Am I boring you, Mr. Robin?”

The teacher's voice, dangerously close, startled Christopher, and he looked up from the paper in front of him. He swallowed. The teacher was standing over him, a stern look on her face. In her hand she held a long ruler. She began to hit it against her other hand, the sound loud in the now silent room. Then, with a whack, she slammed the ruler down on the paper, the long rod landing right on the largest image of Pooh. The bear was leaning up against a tree, his hand in a honey pot, with a look of concentration on his gentle face.

“I suggest you open your textbook, Mr. Robin, and follow along,” the teacher said, doing it for him. The sudden movement sent the drawing floating to the floor. Tapping one of the math problems, the teacher raised an eyebrow and then, turning, headed back to the front of the room to resume her lecturing.

As she walked away, Christopher tried to reach down and rescue the picture. But before his fingers could grasp it, the student across from him snatched it up. He looked down at the picture and sneered. “Nice bear, baby,” he hissed, just loud enough for Christopher to hear. Then, with a look of pure evil pleasure, he crumpled up the drawing.

Christopher turned his face, hoping the bully wouldn't see the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He knew it was only a drawing, but it was a drawing of Pooh. He wondered, as he looked out the window, what the silly old bear would think of all this. Pooh had never met anyone he didn't like — well, except for maybe a Heffalump, though he had never actually met or seen a Heffalump. Christopher smiled. The bear would probably end up liking the Heffalump. That was just the way he was. But even Pooh would probably not have liked the boys Christopher now found himself living with.

Not for the first time, Christopher wished he could just go find his friend and leave this place for good. But as the teacher continued to teach that day's math lesson, Christopher realized with a start that it was a foolish wish. He had not wanted to admit it, but he had known since the day he arrived that that part of his life was over. He was, as his father had said when he dropped him off, a “young man” now. It was his job to learn so that one day he could get a job and provide for his own family. Adventures in the woods and fun with his friends were a part of his childhood. If he wanted to ever fit in at Grayford Prep, he was going to have to put thoughts of Pooh and the Hundred-Acre Wood under his bed along with the rest of his toys.

I have to grow up, Christopher thought, bringing pencil to paper and beginning to copy down the math problem on the blackboard. As he wrote, he couldn't help glancing over at the crumpled drawing of Pooh now lying beneath the feet of the bully. Already the pencil marks were fading, covered over by the scuff marks made by the other boy's shoes. By the end of class, the image, along with Christopher's hopes for returning to the Hundred-Acre Wood, had all but faded completely away.

“Promise me you'll never forget me

because if I thought you would, I'd

never leave.”

—A. A. MILN E CmwDqonES+htzmExnOqlukrTqX4EYYUNLk5CV5iCScIctxE9hMfJUhKGueZaBuA1