Christopher Robin_The Novelization

by Elizabeth Rudnick

  “Woke up. Windy. House blew down. Fell in the river. Can’t swim.” Eeyore listed his woes matter-of-factly, with no emotion. “Just another Windsday morning for me.” In the distance, a Heffalump—or whatever it had been that Christopher had heard the night before—let out a terrible roar. Eeyore looked over at Christopher. “It’s your fellow Heffalumps calling you home.”

  Rather than attempt to once again explain that he was not a Heffalump, Christopher decided to try instead to get to the bottom of this very puzzling mystery of the missing friends. Narrowing his eyes, he put a finger to his chin. When he was a boy, he and Pooh would play detective. Putting a finger to one’s chin was always a good way to start. “So,” he said, “everyone woke up. It was a Windsday.” Eeyore nodded. “And where does everyone go on a Windsday?” Picking Eeyore up at that point, Christopher slung him over his shoulder and began to walk back toward Pooh Sticks Bridge.

  From over Christopher’s shoulder, Eeyore sighed. “Beats me,” he said. “Nobody invites me anywhere.”

  Well, Christopher thought, like it or not, Eeyore, you’re coming with me now. We’re going to find out where everyone goes on a Windsday. And hopefully, wherever that place was, it would be where Christopher would find Pooh.

  With a reluctant and rather morose Eeyore in tow, Christopher left the stream and headed back into the woods. He wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed as though the fog had thinned a bit overnight, and he was beginning to recognize his surroundings more and more. It was as though the Hundred-Acre Wood were coming back to life.

  Well, at least some of it appeared to be.

  Pushing through a particularly prickly patch of bushes, Christopher stumbled into a clearing in the woods. He glanced around. The place looked vaguely familiar. Then his eyes fell on a pile of wood at the base of one of the taller trees.

  “Owl’s house,” Christopher said, realizing exactly where they were. “It’s fallen out of the tree.”

  Just then, the same awful noise Christopher and Eeyore had heard by the river echoed through the woods. Only this time it sounded more awful and frightening—if that was possible.

  “It must be digesting,” Eeyore said.

  “Heffalumps aren’t real,” Christopher said, looking down at the donkey. But even as he said those words, he knew they sounded flat. He was beginning to think that Heffalumps were real. Real and, as another whiney roar sounded, too close for his own comfort.

  Trying to ignore the sound, Christopher began to creep toward Owl’s house, which lay in disrepair. It was a mess. Wood had splintered everywhere, and the roof had come off in the fall. Calling out Owl’s name, Christopher moved closer to it until he was almost beside it. Another Heffalump roar sent him tumbling back. Eeyore followed close behind. For a moment, neither moved.

  Then, summoning his courage, Christopher crossed the clearing in a few long strides. He stopped right next to the house. Peering around, he saw a weather vane tilting off the side of the roof. It was bent, the metal twisted and contorted by the strong winds that had clearly sent Owl’s house flying. As Christopher watched, another gust of wind blew through the clearing. The weather vane strained against the roof, the air rushing through the bent metal and causing it to scrape against the roof. The resulting sound was the roar of the “Heffalumps.”

  “It’s just the weather vane!” Christopher cried out triumphantly when he realized what was happening. He had been right about Heffalumps! They didn’t exist! The wind kicked up a notch and the resulting “Heffalump” roar had Eeyore folding his ears over his eyes and cringing. Quickly, Christopher climbed over the roof and reached out a hand, stopping the weather vane’s movements.

  Instantly, the horrible screeching noise stopped as well.

  Eeyore peeked up from behind his long, floppy ears. “Huh,” he said, sounding as impressed as Eeyore ever sounded. “Will you look at that.” Slowly, he climbed up onto the roof to take a closer look.

  “But no Owl,” Christopher said as he pulled the weather vane free of the roof so that the dreaded noise would stop for good. Freed from the fear of a Heffalump attack, Christopher focused back on the reason he was in the Hundred-Acre Wood in the first place.

  “What happened to everyone?” Christopher asked.

  “If only Christopher Robin were here,” Eeyore answered. “He would know.”

  “I am Christopher Robin,” Christopher pointed out.

  Eeyore raised an eyebrow. “You should be able to tell us then,” he said, sounding rather unconvinced.

  Taking the donkey’s words as a challenge, Christopher walked around Owl’s disheveled house, looking for signs. He peered through the hole in the roof. He took stock of the table and the chairs that now lay on their sides. Backing up, he tripped and nearly fell over an uneven plank on the side of the house. As he caught his balance, his eyes fell on a single shutter that had blown free and was lying on the ground, covered in mud—and what looked like footprints.

  Suddenly, Christopher let out a triumphant shout. He knew what had happened. “They were all here,” he said, telling Eeyore his theory. He pointed to the table through the hole and then at the plank. “Rabbit’s carrots. And someone was bouncing. Tigger.”

  “Obvious,” Eeyore said, unimpressed.

  Christopher pointed at the shutter as he delivered his conclusion: “It must’ve broken free, flown up, and slammed into the weather vane. Everybody, of course, thought it was a Heffalump! Panicked, they flew out the door.” As he spoke, he acted out his words, jumping at an unheard noise and then looking around, frightened. He pointed to the door and a small pile of haycorn shells. “Haycorn shells. A whole trail of them.”

  “Follow them and we’ll find Piglet,” Eeyore said before Christopher could get the words out.

  Christopher stopped what he was doing and gave the donkey a disgruntled glare. “Now that was obvious,” he muttered under his breath. Then, grabbing Eeyore, he put him under his arm and took off in pursuit of the haycorn trail. They were on the hunt!

  As they moved through the woods, following the trail of haycorns left behind by Piglet, Christopher couldn’t help smiling. It felt nice to be out doing something, rather than sitting behind a desk. He was being useful and productive. And, he thought—unable to completely let go of the professional man he had become—he was being rather efficient about it. In the sky above, the sun began to peek out from behind the clouds.

  “Here’s another one!” Christopher shouted, spotting a haycorn. “And another!” The haycorns were being uncovered faster and faster.

  Suddenly, Christopher heard an unmistakable crunching sound. He cocked his head. It wasn’t the sound of someone crunching just anything. It was the sound of someone crunching haycorns. He took a few steps forward. The noise appeared to be coming from behind a row of trees. Christopher moved closer; then he peeked around the trunk.

  And sure enough, sitting there on a rock, eating haycorns at a rapid pace—with a very stressed expression on his little face—was Piglet.

  Hearing the rustling caused by Christopher’s footsteps, Piglet looked up, startled. “Who is it? Who’s th-there?” he stammered.

  Christopher set Eeyore down and nudged him toward the clearing. By the way the small pig was eating the haycorns, Christopher knew his old friend was already on edge. If Piglet saw a familiar face first, he might begin to calm down.

  “It’s just me,” Eeyore said, slowly ambling forward.

  Piglet’s eyes lit up. “Eeyore!” he shouted in a squeaky voice. “Thank goodness it’s you.”

  “Never has anybody cared so much,” Eeyore replied in his typical sad way.

  Watching from behind the tree, Christopher saw Piglet visibly relax. Taking that as a good sign, he stepped forward. But unfortunately, thanks to the now present sun, the first thing Piglet saw was a large shadow that seemed to tower monstrously over him. Just as Eeyore had done, Piglet mistook Christopher for a Heffalump and let out a high-pitched scream.

  “Piglet,” Christo
pher said as reassuringly as he could. He then took another step forward so he was no longer in the shadows. “It’s just me. It’s Christopher Robin.”

  His words did nothing to calm the tiny creature. “Don’t—don’t move,” he squeaked. “And maybe it won’t eat us.”

  Reaching into his pocket, Christopher dug out one of the many haycorns he had collected as they followed Piglet’s trail. He held it out. “Here,” he said. “Would a Heffalump offer you a haycorn?”

  Piglet furrowed his brow thoughtfully. “It would…if it were trying to trick me!” Christopher let out a chuckle, thinking that Piglet had to be kidding. But then, quick as a wink, Piglet grabbed the haycorn and took off. Luckily for Christopher, the little pig couldn’t get very far very fast. Christopher watched him run toward a hole at the top of a fallen tree, then scramble inside.

  Following him over to the log, Christopher could hear muffled voices inside. He bent down so his head was closer to the opening. The voices became more distinct and he quickly made out Rabbit’s. “Piglet,” he was saying, “you have a head full of fluff! You’ve led it right to us. Now we’re stuffed!”

  Christopher leaned farther over. “Hello, everyone!” he said, speaking into the log.

  In response, Tigger bounded out. His paws were up in a fighting stance, and he was bouncing more than usual so that he looked like a blur of orange and black. But while Tigger was pretending to be tough, especially when he spoke, it was clear he was terrified. His eyes were wide and his voice distinctly shaky: “I’ll pounce ya, I’ll pound ya—”

  “Tigger,” Christopher said, all too familiar now with going unrecognized, “it’s me. Christopher Robin.” Then he squatted down and stuck his head right into the opening of the hollow tree. Inside, huddled together, was the gang: Rabbit, Owl, Kanga, Roo, and, of course, Piglet. Upon seeing Christopher’s disembodied head, they shrieked in unison.

  But then, slowly, the shrieks grew quieter. Inside the log, they looked at one another. Then at Christopher. Then back to each other. Could it be? Could Christopher Robin have returned? Finally, Eeyore lumbered over. Stretching out his neck so that he was nose-to-nose with Christopher, he peered into his eyes.

  “It is Christopher Robin,” he said with a nod. “You can see it in his eyes now.”

  One by one, the rest of the group stepped up to take their own look at Christopher. He waited patiently. He let Tigger squeeze his nose and Roo touch his face. Satisfied, they stepped back so Owl could finally approach.

  The wise old bird took his time. He leaned in close. Then he pulled back. Then he leaned in close again, his huge eyes unblinking. Finally, he nodded. “Ah, yes,” he said. “I see it. Quite clear. Never really doubted it at all.” Christopher opened his mouth to object but stopped himself. Owl went on. “Would you like to join us, Christopher Robin? We’re hiding from the Heffalump.”

  “But the Heffalump was just your old weather vane, Owl!” Christopher said, straightening to his full height.

  Popping his head out of a hole in the top of the log, Rabbit tsked. “Oh, dear,” he said to the others. “He’s addled in the brain. Happens to the elderly.” He turned his attention to Christopher. Speaking to him as though he were a child, he explained that a weather vane and a Heffalump are two different things.

  “Poor old thing,” Kanga said in her kind, motherly way. She raised her voice, as though speaking to someone who was hard of hearing. “A Heffalump really isn’t a weather vane, dear,” she said.

  Christopher stood there, not sure whether to laugh or cry. He knew he looked different. He knew he was significantly older than he had been the last time he had visited the Hundred-Acre Wood. But he wasn’t an invalid. And he hadn’t lost his hearing—or his mind. But before he could point any of this out, the rest of the group added their two cents’ worth about the obvious differences between weather vanes and Heffalumps.

  “That’s right,” Tigger agreed. “The beast is real. We heard it this morning; woke us all up. It’s gotten loose again.”

  Owl nodded. “And worse, Pooh has gone missing.”

  Popping his head out of his mother’s pouch, Roo glanced nervously around. “And I’m—I’m not leaving until it’s gone for good,” he said. His big eyes were full of fear.

  “But there’s no such thing as monsters,” Christopher said when they had all spoken, trying to reassure them. It didn’t work. Instead, they all shrank back, just as scared as ever. Telling them the monster wasn’t real wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He needed to take their collective fear seriously if he was going to get them to stop shaking and trust him. “Yes, right. No monsters. Except, of course, for Heffalumps.”

  “And Woozles,” Owl added.

  Christopher nodded. “Err, yes,” he agreed. “And Woozles. And you’re right, Roo. We’ve got a scary Heffalump here, and it’s time I defeated it.” He took a step back. Ignoring a look from Eeyore, who knew that the creature was, in fact, not real, he looked around the clearing for a “Heffalump.” Spotting a tall oak tree just beyond the edge of the clearing, he pointed at it. “Ahh!” he shouted, trying his best to sound and look scared while confronting a tree. “There it is! Stop, Heffalump!” He knew he looked ridiculous. Even Eeyore was rolling his eyes. “You’re either part of the problem or part of the solution,” he hissed under his breath.

  Eeyore shrugged. “Now which sounds like me?”

  Christopher shot him another look. If he was going to defeat the Heffalump, he was going to have to be tricky about it. Grabbing his umbrella and his briefcase, he pretended to chase the Heffalump out of the clearing. Over his shoulder, he shouted a promise to put an end to the Heffalump once and for all. Then he disappeared into the trees.

  Christopher couldn’t believe it had come to this. He was about to fight the Heffalump. Which, of course, was an impossibility, since there were no such things as Heffalumps. So what he was really fighting was his overcoat, stuffed with leaves and cinched with his belt.

  “This is complete silliness,” Christopher said as he pulled out his umbrella and began dragging the Heffalump back toward the edge of the clearing. He needed everyone to witness his fight as he defeated the scary creature, but he didn’t want those watching to get so close that they would be able to see what he was actually fighting.

  Throwing his briefcase on the ground, he stepped onto it and turned so his back was to the log and his audience across the clearing. Then he began to “fight” the Heffalump. Brandishing his umbrella like a sword, he swung wildly. “Hey you, Heffalump!” Christopher shouted. “I’ll teach you to scare my friends!” Switching roles, Christopher roared back in response as if he were the Heffalump.

  Back and forth Christopher went, first playing the part of the hero, then the part of the Heffalump. He stomped his foot and let out louder and louder roars. Then he would call out in fear as if he were being attacked. After a while, Christopher found himself enjoying the playacting. He forgot the others were watching. He forgot that the Heffalump wasn’t real. He forgot about Winslow Luggage and the impending employee cuts and the fact that he was missing time with his family. He lost himself in just having fun.

  “Oh, no!” he shouted, whacking desperately at the creature as though it were drawing closer. “I’m done for! Oh, no you don’t!” He swung the umbrella harder and harder. Swooping down, he grabbed some leaves and threw them up into the air so it appeared as though he had wounded the creature.

  Watching him from the safety of the log, the others waited to see what would happen. Tigger, never good at standing still even in a calm situation, was bouncing up and down frantically. “Oh, boy,” he said excitedly. “He sure is giving that Heffalump a pounding! Oooh! I’d love to get in there and give that monster a wallop or two of my own!” He raised up his paws and brandished them like a boxer.

  “Why don’t you?” Kanga asked.

  Tigger looked down, suddenly not quite as brave as he had been a moment before. “Um…well,” he stammered. Then he pointed at Christop
her, who, as they watched, launched himself off the ground where he had fallen. “Christopher’s got it under control,” Tigger observed.

  Which, technically, was true—although Christopher was giving himself quite the beating. Landing next to Eeyore, he winced as his foot twisted slightly beneath him. Caught up in the fun of it, he had forgotten that he wasn’t a seven-year-old boy playing make-believe. His bones and body weren’t as forgiving.

  “Pathetic,” Eeyore said, catching the wince Christopher displayed but remaining unimpressed by the show. “That’s what it is.”

  In response, Christopher pretended to be dragged backward by the Heffalump. His fingers clawed at the ground and then, accidentally, he grabbed Eeyore’s tail. There was a tearing sound, and the donkey’s tail came off in his hand.

  “There goes the tail,” Eeyore intoned. “Typical.”

  “Oh, no! Not the tail!” Christopher cried, using the mistake to up the action and build to the climax of the fight. At the log, the gang watched with wide eyes, nervous—and curious—to see what would happen next. While Eeyore found it pathetic, the others were buying the fight hook, line, and sinker. Not wanting to let down his audience, Christopher threw everything he had into the final moments of the fight. “Take that you stupid, self-centered, joyless beast! I’m not afraid of you! You rotten, stinking Heffaluuuuuump!” His voice trailed off as silence descended over the clearing.

  A moment later, Christopher’s overcoat flew up into the air and then slowly floated down, down—all the way down to the ground.

  “Did the Heffalump beat him, Mommy?” Roo asked when Christopher didn’t immediately appear. His lower lip quivered and he began to sniffle.

  All around him, the others looked just as sad. They had been able to see most of what was going on, but being on the log had kept them from seeing everything. From those last sounds, it seemed as though Christopher had tried valiantly to take on a Heffalump. But…had it been enough?