“Calvin called from London.” She swallowed her tears. “He sends you his best.”
“Sorry to have missed him. How about some salad, now, and then that plum pudding?”
—Why are we trying to act normal? Meg wondered, but did not speak her thought aloud.
But Charles Wallace replied, “It’s sort of like the string holding the package together, Meg. We’d all fall apart otherwise.”
Her father said, “You know, my dears, the world has been abnormal for so long that we’ve forgotten what it’s like to live in a peaceful and reasonable climate. If there is to be any peace or reason, we have to create it in our own hearts and homes.”
“Even at a time like this?” Meg asked. The call from Calvin, the sound of her husband’s voice, had nearly broken her control.
“Especially at a time like this,” her mother said gently. “We don’t know what the next twenty-four hours are going to bring, and if it should be what we fear, then the peace and quiet within us will come to our aid.”
“Will it?” Meg’s voice faltered again.
“Remember,” Mr. Murry said, “your mother and I take Mrs. O’Keefe seriously.”
“Father,” Sandy chided, “you’re a pure scientist. You can’t take that old woman seriously.”
“I take the response of the elements to her rune seriously.”
“Coincidence,” Dennys said without much assurance.
“My training in physics has taught me that there is no such thing as coincidence.”
“Charles Wallace still hasn’t said anything.” Meg looked to her small brother.
Dennys asked, “What about it, Charles?”
He shook his head slowly. He looked bewildered. “I don’t know. I think I’m supposed to do something, but I don’t know what. But if I’m meant to do something, I’ll be told.”
“By some little men from outer space?” Sandy asked.
“Something in me will tell me. I don’t think any of us wants more salad. Let’s turn out the lights and let Father flame the pudding.”
“I’m not sure I want the lights out,” Meg said. “Maybe there isn’t going to be any more electricity, ever. Let’s enjoy it while we have it.”
“I’d rather enjoy the light of the plum pudding,” Charles Wallace said.
Mrs. Murry took the pudding from the double boiler where it had been steaming, and turned it out onto a plate. Dennys took a sprig of holly and stuck it on the top. Mr. Murry got a bottle of brandy and poured it liberally over the pudding. As he lit the match, Charles Wallace turned out the lights and Sandy blew out the candles. The brandy burned with a brilliant blue flame; it seemed brighter than Meg remembered from other Thanksgivings. It had always been their traditional holiday dessert because, as Mrs. Murry remarked, you can’t make pie crust over a Bunsen burner, and her attempts at mince or pumpkin pie had not been successes.
Mr. Murry tilted the dish so that all the brandy would burn. The flames continued, bright and clear and blue, a blue that held in it the warmth of a summer sky rather than the chill of winter.
“And the fire with all the strength it hath,” Charles Wallace said softly.
“But what kind of strength?” Meg asked. She looked at the logs crackling merrily in the fireplace. “It can keep you warm, but if it gets out of hand it can burn your house down. It can destroy forests. It can burn whole cities.”
“Strength can always be used to destroy as well as create,” Charles Wallace said. “This fire is to help and heal.”
“I hope,” Meg said. “Oh, I hope.”
TWO
All Heaven with its power
Meg sat propped up on pillows in the old brass bed in the attic and tried to read, because thinking hurt too much, was not even thinking but projection into a fearful future. And Calvin was not beside her, to share, to strengthen … She let the book drop; it was one of her old volumes of fairy tales. She looked around the room, seeking comfort in familiar things. Her hair was down for the night and fell softly about her shoulders. She glanced at herself in the old, ripply mirror over the chest of drawers and despite her anxiety was pleased at the reflection. She looked like a child again, but a far lovelier child than she actually had been.
Her ears pricked up as she heard a soft, velvety tread, and a stripy kitten minced across the wide floorboards, sprang up onto the bed, and began grooming itself while purring loudly. There was always at least one kitten around, it seemed. She missed the old black dog. What would Fortinbras have made of the events of the evening? She would have been happier if the old dog had been in his usual forbidden place at the foot of the bed, because he had an unusual degree of sensitivity, even for a dog, to anything which could help or harm his human family.
Meg felt cold and pulled her battered quilt about her shoulders. She remembered Mrs. O’Keefe calling on all Heaven with its power, and thought shudderingly that she would settle for one large, loving dog. Heaven had shown considerable power that evening, and it was too wild and beyond control for comfort.
And Charles Wallace. She wanted her brother. Mrs. O’Keefe had called on Charles to stop Branzillo: he’d need all the powers Heaven could give him.
He had said good night to Meg in a brusque and preoccupied way, and then given her one quick blue glance which had made her keep the light on and the book open. Sleep, in any event, was far away, lost somewhere in that time which had been shattered by the president’s phone call.
The kitten rose high on its legs, made three complete turns, and dropped, heavily for such a little creature, into the curve of her body. The purr slowly faded out and it slept. Meg wondered if she would ever again sleep in that secure way, relinquishing consciousness without fear of what might happen during the night. Her eyes felt dry with fatigue but she did not want to close them and shut out the reassurance of the student lamp with its double yellow globes, the sagging bookshelves she had made with boards and bricks, the blue print curtains at the window; the hem of the curtains had been sagging for longer than she cared to remember and she had been meaning to sew it up since well before her marriage.—Tomorrow, she thought,—if there is a tomorrow.
When she heard footsteps on the attic stairs she stiffened, then relaxed. They had all got in the habit of automatically skipping the seventh step, which not only creaked when stepped on, but often made a sound like a shot. She and Charles Wallace had learned to put one foot on the extreme left of the step so that it let out only a long, slow sigh; when either one of them did this, it was a signal for a conference.
She listened to his progress across the attic, heard the rocking of the old wooden horse as he gave it his usual affectionate slap on the rump, followed by the whing of a dart going into the cork board: all the little signals they had built up over the years.
He pushed through the long strands of patterned rice which curtained the doorway, stood at the foot of the bed, and rested his chin on the high brass rail of the footboard. He looked at her without smiling, then climbed over the footboard as he used to do when he was a little boy, and sat cross-legged on the foot of the bed. “She really does expect me to do something.”
Meg nodded.
“For once I’m feeling more in sympathy with the twins than with Mother and Father. The twins think the whole thing is unreasonable and impossible.”
“Well—remember, Mother always said there’s more to her than meets the eye.”
“What about the rune?”
Meg sighed. “She gave it to you.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Stop Branzillo. And I guess I’m feeling like the twins, too. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Have you ever really talked with her? Do you know her at all?”
“No. I don’t think anyone does. Calvin thinks she stopped herself from being hurt long, long ago by not letting herself love anybody or anything.”
“What’s her maiden name?” Charles Wallace asked abruptly.
Meg frowned. “I don’t re
member. Why?”
“I’m not sure. I feel completely in the dark. But she said her grandmother gave her the rune … Do you know her first name?”
Meg closed her eyes, thinking. “Branwen. That’s it. And she gave me a pair of linen sheets for a wedding present. They were filthy. I had to wash them half a dozen times, and then they turned out to be beautiful. They must have been from her hope chest, and they had embroidered initials, bMz.”
“Z and M for what?”
“I don’t remember …”
“Think, Meg. Let me try to kythe it.”
Again she closed her eyes and tried to relax. It was as though too much conscious intensity of thinking made her brain rigid and closed, and if she breathed slowly and deeply it opened up, and memories and thoughts were freed to come to her consciousness where she could share them with Charles Wallace.
“The M—” she said slowly. “I think it’s Maddox.”
“Maddox. It’s trying to tell me something, Maddox, but I’m not sure what. Meg, I want you to tell me everything about her you possibly can.”
“I don’t know much.”
“Meg—” The pupils of his eyes enlarged so that the iris was only a pale blue ring. “Somehow or other she’s got something to do with Branzillo.”
“That’s—that’s—”
“—absurd. That’s what the twins would say. And it is. But she came tonight of all nights, when she’s never been willing to come before. And you heard her say that she didn’t want to come but she felt impelled to. And then she began to remember a rune she hadn’t thought of since she was a child, and she told me to use it to stop Branzillo.”
“And she said we thought she was crackers.”
“But she isn’t. Mother and Father know that. And nobody can accuse them of being dimwitted daydreamers. What does the Z stand for?”
Again Meg shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t even remember if I asked, though I think I must have.”
“Branwen Maddox. Branwen Z. Maddox.” He rubbed his fingers over his forehead. “Maddox. There’s a clue there.”
The kitten yawned and went brrtt as though they were disturbing it. Meg reached out and gently knuckled its hard little head and then scratched the soft fur under the chin until it started to purr again and slowly closed its eyes.
“Maddox—it’s in a song, or a ballad, about two brothers fighting, like Childe Harold maybe. Or maybe a narrative poem—” He buried his head in his hands. “Why can’t I remember!” he demanded in frustration.
“Is it that important?”
“Yes! I don’t know why, but it is. Maddox—fighting his brother and angering the gods …”
“But, Charles—what does some old story have to do with anything?”
“It’s a clue. But I can’t get enough … Is it very cold out?”
Meg looked surprised. “I don’t think so. Why?”
Charles Wallace gazed out the window. “The snow hasn’t melted, but there isn’t much wind. And I need to listen.”
“The best listening place is the star-watching rock.”
He nodded thoughtfully. The large, flattish glacial rock left over from the time when oceans of ice had pushed across the land, and which the family called the star-watching rock because it gave them a complete and unobstructed view of the sky, was indeed a good place to listen. When they lay on it to watch the stars they looked straight across the valleys to the hills. Behind the rock was a small woods. There was no sight of civilization, and little sound. Occasionally they heard the roar of a truck far away on the highway, or a plane tracking across the sky. But mostly it was quiet enough so that all they heard was the natural music of the seasons. Sometimes in the spring Meg thought she could hear the grass grow. In the autumn the tree toads sang back and forth as though they couldn’t bear to let the joys of summer pass. In the winter when the temperature dropped swiftly she was sometimes startled by the sound of ice freezing with a sharp cracking noise like a rifle retort. This Thanksgiving night—if nothing more unusual or horrible happened—would be quiet. It was too late in the year for tree toads and locusts and crickets. They might hear a few tired leaves sighing wearily from their branches, or the swoosh of the tall grasses parting as a small nocturnal animal made its way through the night.
Charles Wallace said, “Good idea. I’ll go.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No. Stay here.”
“But—”
“You know Dr. Louise was afraid you were going to get pneumonia last week when you had that bad chest cold. You mustn’t risk getting cold again, for the baby’s sake.”
“All right, Charles, but, oh—”
“Meg,” he said gently. “Something’s blocking me, and I need to get unblocked. I have to be alone. But I’ll need you to kythe with me.”
She looked troubled. “I’m out of practice—” Kything was being able to be with someone else, no matter how far away they might be, was talking in a language that was deeper than words. Charles Wallace was born with this gift; slowly she became able to read the thoughts he sent her, to know what he wanted her to know. Kything went far beyond ordinary ESP, and while it came to Charles Wallace as naturally as breathing, for Meg it took intense concentration. Charles Wallace and Calvin were the only two people with whom she was able to give and receive this language that went far beyond words.
Charles Wallace assured her. “It’s like swimming, or riding a bike. Once you learn, you never forget.”
“I know—but I want to go with you.” She tried to hold back the thought,—To protect you.
“Meg.” His voice was urgent. “I’m going to need you, but I’m going to need you here, to kythe with me, all the way.”
“All the way where?”
His face was white and strained. “I don’t know yet. I have a feeling it will be a long way, and yet what has to be done has to be done quickly.”
“Why you?”
“It may not be me. We’re not certain. But it has to be somebody.”
—If it’s not somebody, Meg thought,—then the world, at least the world as we know it, is likely to come to an end.
She reached out and gave her little brother a hug and a kiss. “Peace go with you.”
She turned out the light and lay down to wait until she heard him in her mind. The kitten stretched and yawned and slept, and its very indifference was a comfort. Then the sharp sound of a dog barking made her sit up.
The barking continued, sharp and demanding, very much like Fortinbras when he was asking for attention. She turned on the light. The barking stopped. Silence. Why had it stopped?
She got out of bed and hurriedly slipped into a robe and slippers and went downstairs, forgetting the seventh step, which groaned loudly. In the kitchen she saw her parents and Charles Wallace all stroking a large, nondescript dog.
Mrs. Murry looked with no surprise at Meg. “I think our dog has found us.”
Mr. Murry pulled gently at the dog’s upright ear; the other drooped. “She’s a ‘yaller dog’ in looks, but she appears to be gentle and intelligent.”
“No collar or anything,” Charles Wallace said. “She’s hungry, but not overly thin.”
“Will you fix her some food, Meg?” Mrs. Murry asked. “There’s still some in the pantry left over from Fortinbras.”
As Meg stirred up a bowl of food she thought,—We’re all acting as though this dog is going to be with us for a long time.
It wasn’t the coming of the dog that was strange, or their casual acceptance of it. Fortinbras had come to them in the same way, simply appearing at the door, an overgrown puppy. It was the very ordinariness of it which made tears prickle briefly against her lashes.
“What are we going to call her?” Mrs. Murry asked.
Charles Wallace spoke calmly. “Her name is Ananda.”
Meg looked at him, but he only smiled slightly. She put the food down and the dog ate hungrily, but tidily.
“Ananda,” Mrs. Murry said thou
ghtfully. “That rings some kind of bell.”
“It’s Sanskrit,” Charles Wallace said.
Meg asked, “Does it mean anything?”
“That joy in existence without which the universe will fall apart and collapse.”
“That’s a mighty big name for one dog to carry,” Mrs. Murry said.
“She’s a large dog, and it’s her name,” Charles Wallace responded.
When Ananda had finished eating, licking Fortinbras’s old bowl till it was clean, she went over to Meg, tail wagging, and held up one paw. Meg took it; the pads felt roughly leathery and cool. “You’re beautiful, Ananda.”
“She’s hardly that,” Mr. Murry said, smiling, “but she certainly knows how to make herself at home.”
The kettle began to sing. “I’m making tea against the cold.” Mrs. Murry turned off the burner and filled the waiting pot. “Then we’d better go to bed. It’s very late.”
“Mother,” Meg asked, “do you know what Mrs. O’Keefe’s first name is? Is it Branwen?”
“I think so, though I doubt if I’ll ever feel free to call her that.” She placed a steaming cup in front of Meg.
“You remember the sheets she gave us?”
“Yes, superb old linen sheets.”
“With initials. A large M in the middle, with a smaller b and z on either side. Do you know what the Z stands for?”
“Zoe or Zillah or something unusual like that. Why?”
Meg answered with another question. “Does the name Branwen mean anything? It’s sort of odd.”
“It’s a common enough Irish name. I think the first Branwen was a queen in Ireland, though she came from England. Perhaps she was a Pict, I’m not sure.”
“When?” Charles Wallace asked.
“I don’t know exactly. Long ago.”
“More than two thousand years?”
“Maybe three thousand. Why?”
Charles Wallace poured milk into his tea and studied the cloudy liquid. “It just might be important. After all, it’s Mom O’Keefe’s name.”
A Wrinkle in Time Quintet Page 35