The Other Side of the Sun

by Madeleine L'engle

  Then I endured a tour though St. James Church. Here again the heat was caged, as it had been in the train. In each of the dark, high-backed pews, palm-leaf fans were stuck beside prayer books and hymnals. Aunt Irene pointed to one of the brass plaques. “This is our pew.”

  It was an ugly church to my English eyes, wooden, with ornate interior and exterior gingerbread, and cheap—at least to me they looked cheap—stained-glass memorial windows. “Cousin Sarah and the girls are the Altar Guild,” Aunt Irene told me, buzzing about the altar, opening and closing doors. Then she went to the closet-like rooms on either side of the sanctuary, opening cupboards, finally tugging at one door which seemed locked.

  I asked, “Is the silver there?”

  “No, no, honey, I told you about Mr. McLean and his Oxford ideas. He keeps Communion bread there, Communion bread for the sick. The bread’s all consecrated and ready, in case he gets a call suddenly. Of course, like I said, some people—Cousin Sarah and the girls for instance—don’t like it because it’s new—but why not be prepared, I always say? He preaches a good sermon, he’s got the loveliest smile and black hair going prematurely grey, and I say he’s a man of God.” She kept on tugging at the little door while she talked, though it was quite apparent that it was locked. “Oh dear, oh dear,” she moaned under her breath.

  “Is something wrong, Aunt Irene? Did you want something?”

  “Of course not, honey. I just wanted to show you our lovely chalice and paten—” But she was obviously distressed. Finally she said, “We’d better go. This heat—” And we went back to the carriage. She wanted to show me everything, the courthouse, Uncle Hoadley’s law offices, his club, the theatre—theatre in Jefferson? But yes, Aunt Irene assured me. In the winter the best of the theatrical companies came to Jefferson; she had seen the Drews, Jefferson—“Of course the city was named after the President, not the actor.” She had heard Melba, Calvé, Patti sing. “When Terry comes back, if you settle in Jefferson, you’ll find we’re not a cultural backwash.”

  Settle in Jefferson? It did not seem within the realm of possibility. Could I bring up my babies in a place like this? In Illyria, yes, but not this steaming, dank town. Of course if I had to, I would. It could not be any worse than women going out to India with their husbands.

  “This is the Masonic Temple, honey,” Aunt Irene said, “and in just a minute we’ll go by Mercy Hospital, the finest hospital in the South.” But her interest in showing me the sights was now only superficial.

  The heat made me nauseated and sleepy simultaneously. I could not be concerned or even curious about Aunt Irene’s distress. All I could do was endure until we got back to the ocean.

  4

  When I finally ran up the stairs to my room, my clothes were as wet as though I’d worn them in swimming. I dropped them in a sodden heap on the floor and got into my bathing dress.

  When I reached the beach, the twins were digging donax directly in front of Illyria. They were stooped over, one on either side of a big tin bucket half full of the tiny, luminous shells. They were humming happily at their work. They might be idiots, but they were a return to sanity.

  When they looked up and saw me they broke into pleased laughter, and Willy began to jump up and down, singing:

  “I had a little pony,

  His name was Dapple Grey,

  Ponykins, ponykins, where have you been?

  I’ve been to the beach to visit the queen.

  Lady, O lady, oh; don’t run away.”

  “Honoria the queen?” Harry asked.

  Willy shook his head, jumping up and down and clapping his hands in glee. “Honoria the princess.”

  “Pretty lady?” Harry asked.

  “Pretty lady,” Willy affirmed. “Boys pick donax for pretty lady. Honoria make soup. Soup of the evening, beautiful soup.”

  I thanked the twins for gathering the donax and ran splashing into the slough to cool off. Behind me the sky was rosy with the coming of evening, and the color was thrown back by the wet sand. Over the ocean thunderheads were massing, but they were still far away. I was already beginning to feel an old hand about the almost-daily storms. This one, I thought, was south of us, and we would get only the growlings and splashings of its periphery.

  I went back to the house, back to my room, back, as was now my habit, to Mado. I had a sense of urgency, that somewhere in the journals was the key to things I did not understand.

  After the horror of the fire at Nyssa there was a period of several years during which Mado did not write at all. When she resumed, the family was settled in Illyria. Everybody worked, in the garden, fishing, clamming, crabbing; they were, in a way quite different from the more structured community at Nyssa, almost self-sustaining. Mado mothered the twins, who provided the household with food from the sea. Young Hoadley, on long visits from Charleston, brought luxuries with him, sugar, perfumed soap, candles. When they had to have money, Honoria sold one of her precious stones. Mado and the aunts had sold their diamonds, but Honoria would not let them sell anything else. It was apparent that in most things Mado’s will was the dominant one, but when it came to a question of the treasure Honoria had brought with her from Kairogi, she made the decisions. Not even Mado knew where the treasure was kept, or how great it was.

  “Sometimes after dark Honoria and I will take the boys and go lie out on the sand dunes and watch the stars. Usually the twins appear from nowhere and come to join us. If there has been dissension during the day—and in any family of course there sometimes is—it goes away under the starlight. But why do the children seem to quarrel more when Hoadley is here than when he is in Charleston? Hoadley seems to be such a quiet boy, so good and thoughtful; I cannot account for it. But the boys all want to show off in front of him, to get his attention, to please him—and so, of course, please nobody. And he somehow brings out all of the wildness and thoughtlessness in Therro. These qualities are there in my son, I cannot in any way blame it on Hoadley, but it is worse when Hoadley is here. And when Hoadley is with us, Therro gets impatient at Jimmy’s always wanting to tag along; when we are alone, Therro is merry and patient with him. Jimmy is one of the most trusting and loving little creatures imaginable. I love him as much as I love my own boys, in just the way that Honoria in her turn loves Therro as her own. We share our love as we share so many things. If the children have been argumentative during the day, it all seems to resolve itself when we turn to the stars. When we look at the great sweep of Milky Way the boys will sometimes ask about God, and all the great problems of good and evil. If God is good, why are people hurt? Jimmy asked that last night. Perhaps the stars themselves are the best answer I can give. On our star-watching night Honoria and I will often return to the dunes after everybody else has retired, and will lie there in silence. Sometimes I am freed to weep, as all human beings must, in proper grief. I weep not for my husband and babies; I have no fear for them. I weep for myself. And Honoria reaches out to touch my hand. Honoria is far greater than I could ever hope to be. While I am preoccupied with human problems, Honoria talks with the stars.”

  And, in the next entry: “I do not forget Olivia, nor that the death of the children was as devastating for her as for me. Olivia is a different person when her arms are around a child than when they are empty, and Jimmy has been her baby, certainly more than mine, and, in a strange, incomprehensible way, more than Honoria’s. Jimmy will respond to Olivia when he will to no one else. For Jimmy, Olivia is a delightful combination of mother and playmate, while Therro is for him a god. No. God. And this can lead only to disillusionment and pain.”

  Here several pages were missing, torn out. Then the journal resumed. “Honoria and I share the same kind of guilt, and we bear it more easily because of each other. I am not guilty because of what my husband’s family did or did not do, or even for what Claudius Broadley did or did not do. But I am guilty for what I do or do not do with the results of their actions. If only Theron were here to help me. Thank God for James; dear James. He ha
s lost everything, not only the physical Nyssa, but his dream, and he is able to say, ‘Remember, Mado, we do what we can, but we do not have to succeed. All we have to do is everything we can.’ ‘Why don’t we have to succeed?’ I demanded. James in his usual quiet way simply murmured, ‘There are precedents. Our Lord was singularly unsuccessful in a good many things.’ Yes, my angel, you see that I am still arrogant. I must succeed. Marguerite Dominique de la Valeur Renier must remake society. Isn’t there anything we can do, anything at all? In our generation and in this place guilt is in the air we breathe.”

  Now I, too, was caught up in this guilt, a guilt I did not understand. It lay heavy on me as the heat.

  I read on. “People talked about immorality at Nyssa, and I suppose this kind of slander is inevitable. When people are immoral themselves, they can’t bear not to find immorality in others. Perhaps it was no special virtue in us that there was, in fact, none at Nyssa: we were too busy. Immorality takes unused time, and at Nyssa we worked from morning till night. One of the most intolerable aftermaths of war is great empty wastes of time, young men out of work, families starving, and great stretches of time in which nothing can be done to earn money for food. Great stretches of time in which to explore the darker ways of passion. Perhaps it is inevitable that there is talk about Illyria, too.”

  I went down to Aunt Olivia and heard voices from her room.

  Ron.

  Aunt Olivia was propped high on the pillows; Ron was in the rocking chair.

  “Climb up and sit!” Aunt Olivia called as I came in. “Here, lambie, I’ll throw you a pillow to put against the bedpost.”

  “Nice to see you, Mrs. Renier,” Ron said. “I’ll be getting along.”

  “Why?” Aunt Olivia demanded. “Why are you going?”

  “I told the twins I wouldn’t be long.”

  “You’re worried about the twins, aren’t you?”

  “Could be.”

  “Stay for just a few minutes. You shouldn’t run off just as Stella comes in.”

  The heavily carved post of the bed was hard through the softness of Aunt Olivia’s goosedown pillow. The late sun came through the slats of the closed shutters, and stripes of light, alive with motes, fell on the bed, on the floor.

  “I’ve been nanny-goating about Nyssa,” Aunt Olivia said, “and the hospital there. If Ron could bring his patients here to Illyria instead of the twins’ kitchen—”

  “Miss Olivia,” Ron said, “you know why I cannot. What I do has to be done as I am doing it.”

  “But can you do it?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m beginning to think perhaps I can.”

  “Not as long as you’re like Tron, full of hate.”

  Ron, in the rocking chair, did not rock. His feet were planted firmly on the floor. His hands were tight on the arms of the chair. “We need to hate evil, Miss Olivia.”

  “I’m tired of hate.”

  “We all are. But if you get tired of hating things like—”

  I said, into the pause, “The Night Riders.”

  “All right.” Aunt Olivia shuddered. “But does it always have to be like this? Isn’t there ever a time when there can just be love?”

  “In this world,” Ron said, “you have to have both. You talk about my being a doctor. It’s not enough for me to love health. I have to hate sickness, too.”

  “When you put it that way,” Aunt Olivia said, “I understand. But I was thinking about other things. I’m tired of hate. But I see it every day. That’s why I keep General Everard’s guns loaded and at hand. I meant it, Stella. If the Riders come near Illyria I’ll shoot.”

  Ron stood up. “Give me the guns, Miss Olivia.”

  “No.”

  “Miss Olivia, I’d be a lot happier if you’d give me the guns.”

  “No.”

  He shrugged, pushed his spectacles more firmly up on his nose. “Miss Stella, be careful if you walk up the beach this evening. Some jellyfish came in with the tide and they’re stingers. They won’t hurt you unless you touch them, so watch where you’re going. It’s a bit smelly, but the buzzards will have the dead ones finished off soon.”

  “We’ve known too many buzzards in our day, haven’t we, Ronnie?” Aunt Olivia asked. “But you—you are a pelican in the wilderness.”

  “The Psalms, Miss Livvy,” Ron said lightly. “Point for me.”

  After he had gone, Aunt Olivia said sadly, “You see, Stella, Ronnie is always a little boy to me underneath all that prickliness, the little boy who played under the fig tree with Terry and didn’t know he was different. That little boy who loved and trusted me is still there. There’s more love in Ronnie than he knows. That’s why I’m afraid for the two of you.”

  “Afraid? Why?”

  “I thought you and Ron could be friends. I wanted you to be friends. Ron needs—but now I don’t think you can.”

  “But why not?”

  “Mado said I tried too hard to understand what was better not understood. She said, To know I know is but to know I can hold nothing in my hand except the wind where’er it blow. I do not need to understand. Does that help you to understand?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think it does. I don’t think I want to understand.” I slid down from the bed.

  After dinner I walked on the beach, avoiding the large, glutinous blobs of jellyfish. I had been right about the storm; it passed us by while we were at table, only a few drops splattering against the windows, and leaving dark circles on the beach, large as pennies. The air was no lighter than it had been before the storm, and the night seemed darker than any Illyrian night thus far, though the stars were out and the moon would be close to full. I walked with my arms hugging myself, as though protecting myself from something. It wasn’t until I heard the voice that I realized that Ron had come up to me and was walking beside me.

  “Miss Stella.”

  “Oh, Ron. Oh, Ron, hello.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” We walked in silence for a while, and then he asked me formally about the day in Jefferson. I told him a little about my reactions—though not about seeing Belle and Tron. And then I told him about going to the church. “It was as though Aunt Irene were looking for something, and was terribly upset because she couldn’t find it. What do you suppose it could have been?”

  “Communion bread.” His face was set.

  “Communion bread? She said something about it—but why would she want it?”

  “Things that are used for good can be used for bad, too. Miss Irene is getting mixed up in dark things that are too big for her.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Magic, Miss Stella. Black magic.”

  “Oh, no—but why the Communion bread?”

  “You can’t put a curse on anything that hasn’t been blessed.”

  I shuddered. We walked back to Illyria in silence.

  5

  Thursday: I had been in Illyria one day less than a week.

  I spent the morning in the little writing room, writing to Terry, to the Dowlers, trying to reach across the ocean to the familiar, the safe. I was abominably homesick.

  In the afternoon Aunt Olivia asked me to come to have tea with her. The next evening, with Uncle Hoadley coming for the weekend, she was to be carried out on the veranda for mint juleps, and Ron had cut down drastically on her pain pills. I sat in my usual perch on the foot of her bed, and Honoria put the laden tea tray between us.

  “Sit down and have tea with us, Honoria,” Aunt Olivia said. “I’ve been alone all week.”

  Honoria poured our tea, then took the third cup, which was already on the tray, and sat in the mahogany rocker. “They’s days when hot tea does more to cool you off than cold tea, and this is one. Member, Miss Livvy, how we used to drink tea with orange marmalade in it instead of lemon and sugar, when they wasn’t enough money for lemon and sugar? Miss Mado say it the Russian way. I brought you some marmalade, my own I made this winter, because Ronnie say not to p
ut lemon in your tea till your joints cool off. Now you listen to me, Miss Livvy, and stop feeling sorry for yourself. You ain’t been alone this week. We all been here, and I told Miss Mado to stay with you and see that you wasn’t lonely.”

  Aunt Olivia sipped at the steaming liquid in the thin china cup. “You sound as though you really do talk with her.”

  “Sometimes I do,” Honoria said. “The dead aren’t far from us. Why shouldn’t I talk with Miss Mado?”

  “Ronnie would call it superstition.”

  “Ronnie don’t know everything.”

  “Maybe I would call it superstition.”

  “You could try, Miss Livvy, but you wouldn’t fool yourself. Nobody old as we is can be fooled into thinking she knows everything.”

  “Who does?” Aunt Olivia asked. “Nobody knows everything, and what little we do know crumbles under our feet. Ashes, ashes. And we all fall down, as the twins would say, and maybe it’s not so bad if we’ve had enough ring-around-a-rosy before. Oh, my bones hurt so, and I’m so tired of hurting, and I wish I could walk on the beach tonight.”

  “Too much moon,” Honoria said.

  “It’s started to wane. A waning moon’s always a little sad, a memento mori. I’m the reverse of the French proverb: it’s not the act of dying I’m afraid of; I’m afraid of death itself. Of not being.”

  “You bin brave in your day,” Honoria said without emotion. “When your time comes, the courage will come with it.”

  Aunt Olivia moved her painful bones restlessly. “How odd it is that the ocean wouldn’t have tides if it weren’t for the moon. And yet the moon is dead, burnt out.”

  I smiled. “But it controls the sea.”

  “And the time of women,” Aunt Olivia said. “If there are women on Mars, I wonder what happens with two moons?”