A Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  “El Rabioso sees this as an act of punishment, of just retribution. The Western world has used up more than our share of the world’s energy, the world’s resources, and we must be punished,” Mr. Murry said. “We are responsible for the acutely serious oil and coal shortage, the defoliation of trees, the grave damage to the atmosphere, and he is going to make us pay.”

  “We stand accused,” Sandy said, “but if he makes us pay, Vespugia will pay just as high a price.”

  Mrs. O’Keefe stretched her wrinkled hands out to the flames. “At Tara in this fateful hour …” she mumbled.

  Meg looked at her mother-in-law questioningly, but the old woman turned away. Meg said to the room at large, “I know it’s selfish, but I wish Calvin weren’t in London giving that paper. I wish I’d gone with him.”

  “I know, love,” Mrs. Murry replied, “but Dr. Louise thought you should stay here.”

  “I wish I could at least phone him …”

  Charles Wallace moved out of his withdrawn silence to say, “It hasn’t happened yet, nuclear war. No missiles have been sent. As long as it hasn’t happened, there’s a chance that it may not happen.”

  A faint flicker of hope moved across Meg’s face.—Would it be better, she wondered,—if we were like the rest of the world and didn’t know the horrible possibility of our lives being snuffed out before another sun rises? How do we prepare?

  “… in this fateful hour,” the old woman mumbled again, but turned her head away when the Murrys looked at her.

  Charles Wallace spoke calmly to the whole family, but looked at Meg. “It’s Thanksgiving, and except for Calvin, we’re all together, and Calvin’s mother is with us, and that’s important, and we all know where Calvin’s heart is; it’s right here.”

  “England doesn’t observe Thanksgiving,” Sandy remarked.

  “But we do.” His father’s voice was resolute. “Finish setting the table, please. Dennys, will you fill the glasses?”

  While Mr. Murry carved, and Mrs. Murry thickened the gravy, Meg finished beating the hard sauce, and the twins and Charles Wallace carried bowls of rice, stuffing, vegetables, cranberry sauce, to the table. Mrs. O’Keefe did not move to help. She looked at her work-worn hands, then dropped them into her lap. “At Tara in this fateful hour …”

  This time nobody heard her.

  Sandy, trying to joke, said, “Remember the time Mother tried to make oatmeal cookies over the Bunsen burner, in a frying pan?”

  “They were edible,” Dennys said.

  “Almost anything is, to your appetite.”

  “Which, despite everything, is enormous.”

  “And it’s time to go to the table,” Mrs. Murry said.

  When they were in their places she automatically held out her hands, and then the family, with Mrs. O’Keefe between Mr. Murry and Meg, was linked around the table.

  Charles Wallace suggested, “Let’s sing Dona nobis pacem. It’s what we’re all praying for.”

  “Sandy’d better start then,” Meg said. “He’s got the best voice. And then Dennys and Mother, and then Father and you and I.”

  They raised their voices in the old round, singing over and over, Give us peace, give us peace, give us peace.

  Meg’s voice trembled, but she managed to sing through to the end.

  There was silence as the plates were served, silence instead of the usual happy noise of conversation.

  “Strange,” Mr. Murry said, “that the ultimate threat should come from a South American dictator in an almost unknown little country. White meat for you, Meg?”

  “Dark, too, please. Isn’t it ironic that all this should be happening on Thanksgiving?”

  Mrs. Murry said, “I remember my mother telling me about one spring, many years ago now, when relations between the United States and the Soviet Union were so tense that all the experts predicted nuclear war before the summer was over. They weren’t alarmists or pessimists; it was a considered, sober judgment. And Mother said that she walked along the lane wondering if the pussy willows would ever bud again. After that, she waited each spring for the pussy willows, remembering, and never took their budding for granted again.”

  Her husband nodded. “There was a reprieve then. There may be again.”

  “But is it likely?” Sandy’s brown eyes were sober.

  “It wasn’t likely then. The pussy willows, nevertheless, have budded for a good many springs.” He passed cranberry sauce to Mrs. O’Keefe.

  “In this fateful hour,” she mumbled, and waved the sauce away.

  He bent toward her. “What was that?”

  “At Tara in this fateful hour,” she said irritably. “Can’t remember. Important. Don’t you know it?”

  “I’m afraid not. What is it?”

  “Rune. Rune. Patrick’s rune. Need it now.”

  Calvin’s mother had always been taciturn. At home she had communicated largely in grunts. Her children, with the exception of Calvin, had been slow to speak, because they seldom heard a complete sentence until they went to school. “My grandmother from Ireland.” Mrs. O’Keefe pointed at Charles Wallace and knocked over her glass.

  Dennys fetched paper towels and mopped up the spilled liquid. “I suppose, cosmically speaking, it doesn’t make much difference whether or not our second-rate little planet blows itself up.”

  “Dennys!” Meg cried, then turned to her mother. “Excuse me for using this as an example, but Den, remember when Mother isolated farandolae within a mitochondrion?”

  He interrupted, “Of course I remember. That’s what she got the Nobel Prize for.”

  Mrs. Murry held up her hand. “Let Meg speak.”

  “Okay then: farandolae are so minuscule and insignificant it doesn’t seem they could possibly have any importance, and yet they live in a symbiotic relationship with mitochondria—”

  “Okay, gotcha. And mitochondria provide us with our energy, so if anything affects our farandolae, that can affect our mitochondria—”

  “And,” Meg concluded, “if that happens, we could die from energy loss, as you well know.”

  “Go on,” Sandy said.

  “So if we blow up our planet it would certainly have some small effect on our solar system, and that could affect our galaxy, and that could …”

  “The old chain-reaction theory?” Sandy asked.

  “More than that. Interdependence. Not just one thing leading to another in a straight line, but everything and everyone everywhere interreacting.”

  Dennys threw out the wet paper towels, put a clean napkin over the soiled tablecloth, and refilled Mrs. O’Keefe’s glass. Despite storm windows, the drawn curtains stirred and a draft moved across the room. Heavy drops of rain spattered down the chimney, making the fire hiss. “I still think,” he said, “that you’re overestimating the importance of this planet. We’ve made a mess of things. Maybe it’s best we get blown up.”

  “Dennys, you’re a doctor,” Meg reprimanded.

  “Not yet,” Sandy said.

  “But he’s going to be! He’s supposed to care about and guard life.”

  “Sorry, Sis,” Dennys said swiftly.

  “It’s just his way of whistling in the dark.” Sandy helped himself to rice and gravy, then raised his glass to his sister. “Might as well go out on a full stomach.”

  “I mean it and I don’t mean it,” Dennys said. “I do think we’ve got our priorities wrong, we human beings. We’ve forgotten what’s worth saving and what’s not, or we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Mean, don’t mean,” Mrs. O’Keefe grunted. “Never understand what you people are going on about. Even you.” And again she pointed at Charles Wallace, though this time she did not overturn her glass.

  Sandy glanced across the table at his baby brother, who looked pale and small. “Charles, you’ve eaten hardly anything, and you’re not talking.”

  Charles Wallace replied, looking not at Sandy but at his sister, “I’m listening.”

  She pricked up her ear
s. “To what?”

  He shook his head so slightly that only she saw; and stopped questioning.

  “At Tara in this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power!” Mrs. O’Keefe pointed at Charles and knocked over her glass again.

  This time nobody moved to mop up.

  “My grandma from Ireland. She taught me. Set great store on it. I place all Heaven with its power …” Her words dribbled off.

  Mrs. O’Keefe’s children called her Mom. From everybody except Calvin it sounded like an insult. Meg found it difficult to call her mother-in-law anything, but now she pushed her chair away from the table and knelt by the old woman. “Mom,” she said gently, “what did your grandmother teach you?”

  “Set great store on it to ward off the dark.”

  “But what?”

  “… All Heaven with its power,”

  Mrs. O’Keefe said in a singsong way,

  “And the sun with its brightness,

  And the snow with its whiteness,

  And the fire with all the strength it hath—”

  At that moment it seemed as though a bucketful of water had been dumped down the chimney onto the fire. The flames flickered wildly, and gusts of smoke blew into the room.

  “The fire with all the strength it hath,” Charles Wallace repeated firmly.

  The applewood logs sizzled but the flames gathered strength and began to burn brightly again.

  Mrs. O’Keefe put a gnarled hand on Meg’s shoulder and pressed down heavily as though it helped her to remember.

  “And the—the lightning with its rapid wrath,

  And the winds with their swiftness along their path—”

  The wind gave a tremendous gust, and the house shook under the impact, but stood steady.

  Mrs. O’Keefe pressed until Meg could barely stand the weight.

  “And the sea with its deepness,

  And the rocks with their steepness,

  And the earth with its starkness—”

  Using Meg’s shoulder as a lever, she pushed herself up and stood facing the bright flames in the fireplace.

  “All these I place

  By God’s almighty help and grace

  Between myself and the powers of darkness.”

  Her voice rose triumphantly. “That’ll teach Mad Dog Bran-what’s-his name.”

  The twins looked at each other as though embarrassed. Mr. Murry carved some more turkey. Mrs. Murry’s face was serene and uncommunicative. Charles Wallace looked thoughtfully at Mrs. O’Keefe. Meg rose from her knees and returned to her chair, escaping the unbelievably heavy pressure of her mother-in-law’s hand. She was sure that her shoulder was going to hold black and blue finger marks.

  As Meg moved away, Mrs. O’Keefe seemed to crumple. She collapsed into her chair. “Set high store on that, my grandma did. Haven’t thought of it in years. Tried not to think. So why’d it come to me tonight?” She gasped, as though exhausted.

  “It’s something like Patrick’s Breastplate,” Sandy said. “We sang that in glee club in college. It was one of my favorites. Marvelous harmonies.”

  “Not a song,” Mrs. O’Keefe contradicted. “A rune. Patrick’s rune. To hold up against danger. In this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power—”

  Without warning, the lights went out. A gust of wind dashed across the table, blowing out the candles. The humming of the refrigerator ceased. There was no purring from the furnace in the cellar. A cold dampness clutched the room, filling their nostrils with a stench of decay. The flames in the fireplace dwindled.

  “Say it, Mom!” Charles Wallace called. “Say it all!”

  Mrs. O’Keefe’s voice was weak. “I forget—”

  The lightning outside was so brilliant that light penetrated the closed curtains. A tremendous crash of thunder followed immediately.

  “I’ll say it with you.” Charles Wallace’s voice was urgent. “But you’ll have to help me. Come on. In this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power …”

  Lightning and thunder were almost simultaneous. Then they heard a gigantic crackling noise.

  “One of the trees has been struck,” Mr. Murry said.

  “All Heaven with its power,” Charles Wallace repeated.

  The old woman’s voice took up the words. “And the sun with its brightness …”

  Dennys struck a match and lit the candles. At first the flames flickered and guttered wildly, but then steadied and burned straight and bright.

  “And the snow with its whiteness,

  And the fire with all the strength it hath

  And the lightning with its rapid wrath …”

  Meg waited for the lightning to flash again, for the house itself to be struck. Instead, the power came back on as abruptly as it had gone off. The furnace began to hum. The room was filled with light and warmth.

  “… And the sea with its deepness,

  And the rocks with their steepness,

  And the earth with its starkness,

  All these I place

  By God’s almighty help and grace

  Between myself and the powers of darkness.”

  Charles Wallace lifted the curtains away from one corner of the window. “The rain’s turned to snow. The ground’s all white and beautiful.”

  “All right—” Sandy looked around the room. “What’s this all about? I know something’s happened, but what?”

  For a moment no one spoke. Then Meg said, “Maybe there’s hope.”

  Sandy waved her words away. “Really, Meg, be reasonable.”

  “Why? We don’t live in a reasonable world. Nuclear war is not reasonable. Reason hasn’t got us anywhere.”

  “But you can’t throw it out. Branzillo is mad and there’s no reason in him.”

  Dennys said, “Okay, Sandy, I agree with you. But what happened?”

  Meg glanced at Charles Wallace, but he had his withdrawn, listening look.

  Sandy replied, “Much as we’d like it to, a freak of weather here in the northeastern United States isn’t going to have anything to do with whether or not a South American madman pushes that button to start the war that very likely will be the war to end wars.”

  The baby moved within Meg, a strong affirmation of life. “Father, is the president going to call again?”

  “He said he would when—when there’s any news. One way or other.”

  “Within twenty-four hours?”

  “Yes. I would not want to be in his position at the moment.”

  “Or in ours,” Dennys said. “It strikes me the whole world is in it together.”

  Charles Wallace continued to look out the window. “The snow’s stopping. The wind has shifted to the northwest. The clouds are moving. I see a star.” He let the curtain drop.

  Mrs. O’Keefe jerked her chin toward him. “You. Chuck. I come because of you.”

  “Why, Mom?” he asked gently.

  “You know.”

  He shook his head.

  “Stop him, Chuck. Stop Mad Dog Bran … Stop him.” She looked old and small and Meg wondered how she could have pressed down so heavily on her shoulder. And twice Mrs. O’Keefe had called Charles Wallace Chuck. Nobody ever called him Chuck. Occasionally plain Charles, but never Charlie or Chuck.

  Mrs. Murry asked, “Mrs. O’Keefe, would you like some tea? or coffee?”

  Mrs. O’Keefe cackled without mirth. “That’s right. Don’t hear. Think I’m crackers. Not such a fool as all that. Chuck knows.” She nodded toward Charles Wallace. “Woke up this morning, and wasn’t going to come. Then something told me I was to come, like it or not, and didn’t know why till I saw you with them big ancient eyes and the rune started to come back to me, and I knowed once more Chuck’s no idiot. Haven’t thought of the rune since my grandma and Chuck, till now. You’ve got it, Chuck. Use it.” Her breath ran out. It was the longest speech they had ever heard her give. Panting, she finished. “I want to go home.” And, as no one spoke: “Someone take me home.”

  “But, Mrs
. O’Keefe,” Dennys wheedled, “we haven’t had salad, and it’s got lots of avocado and tomato in it, and then there’s flaming plum pudding.”

  “Flame yourself. I done what I come for. Someone take me home.”

  “Very well, Mrs. O’Keefe.” Mr. Murry rose. “Den or Sandy, will you drive Mrs. O’Keefe home?”

  “I will,” Dennys said. “I’ll get your coat, ma’am.”

  When the car had driven off, Sandy said, “One could almost take her seriously.”

  The Murry parents exchanged glances, and Mrs. Murry replied, “I do.”

  “Oh, come on, Mother, all that rune stuff, and Charles Wallace stopping Mad Dog Branzillo singlehanded?”

  “Not necessarily that. But I take Mrs. O’Keefe seriously.”

  Meg looked anxiously at Charles Wallace, spoke to her mother. “You’ve always said there was more to her than meets the eye. I guess we’ve just seen some of that more.”

  “I rather think we have,” her father said.

  “All right, then, what was it all about? It was all—all unnatural.”

  “What’s natural?” Charles Wallace asked.

  Sandy raised his eyebrows. “Okay, little brother, what do you make of it, then? How do you plan to stop Branzillo?”

  “I don’t know,” Charles Wallace replied seriously. “I’ll use the rune.”

  “Do you remember it?” Meg asked.

  “I remember it.”

  “Did you hear her call you Chuck?”

  “I heard.”

  “But nobody ever calls you Chuck. Where did she get it?”

  “I’m not sure. Out of the past, maybe.”

  The phone rang, and they all jumped. Mr. Murry hurried to the phone table, then drew back an instant before picking up the receiver.

  But it was not the president. It was Calvin, calling from London. He spoke briefly to everybody, was sorry to miss his mother and Dennys; but he was delighted that his mother had come; his paper had gone extremely well; the conference was interesting. At the last he asked to speak to Meg again, and said only, “I love you,” and hung up.

  “I always fall apart on overseas calls,” she said, “so I don’t think he noticed anything. There isn’t any point telling him when he can’t do anything about it, and it would just make it awful for him …” She turned away as Dennys came in, blowing on his fingers.