The first time Lucy Pevensie opened Professor Kirke’s wardrobe and entered Narnia, she was eight years old. The first time I went with her, I was nine. There is something especially magical about reading things as a child. You have fewer prejudices, little knowledge of things beyond face value and the all-absorbing wonder of innocence. I certainly experienced Narnia that way, drinking it in fully and unaware of hidden symbols and meanings. Edmund was a jerk, the White Witch was a terribly mean lady, and Narnian talking beavers put Canada to shame. I skipped happily through the series, oblivious to anything beneath the veneer of adventures in a magical land.…