A Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

“Yes, doc.” She put her left arm into the sleeve and tied the belt. If she stayed in the kitchen with the family, then time would pass with its normal inevitability. The kythe which had been broken by the jangling of the telephone was lost somewhere in her unconscious mind. She hated alarm clocks, because they woke her so abruptly out of sleep that she forgot her dreams.

  In the kything was something to do with Mrs. O’Keefe. But what? She searched her mind. Fireflies. Something to do with fireflies. And a girl and a boy, and the smell of fear. She shook her head.

  “What’s the matter, Meg?” her mother asked.

  “Nothing. I’m trying to remember something.”

  “Sit down. A warm drink won’t hurt you.”

  It was important that she see Mrs. O’Keefe, but she couldn’t remember why, because the kythe was gone.

  “I’ll be right back,” Sandy assured them, and went out the pantry door.

  “What on earth …” Dennys said. “Mrs. O’Keefe is beyond me. I’m glad I’m not going in for psychiatry.”

  Their mother set a plateful of fragrant bread on the table, then turned to put the kettle on. “Look!”

  Meg followed her gaze. Coming into the kitchen were the kitten and Ananda, single file, the kitten with its tail straight up in the air, mincing along as though leading the big dog, whose massive tail was wagging wildly. They all laughed, and the laughter froze as the two creatures came past the table with the telephone. Twice since the president’s call the phone had rung, first Calvin, then his mother. When would it ring again, and who would call?

  It surprised Meg that the warm bread tasted marvelous, and the tea warmed her, and she was able, at least for the moment, to relax. Ananda whined beseechingly, and Meg gave her a small piece of toast.

  Outside came the sound of a car, the slamming of a door, and then Sandy came in with Mrs. O’Keefe. The old woman had cobwebs in her hair, and smudges of dirt on her face. In her hand she held some scraps of paper.

  “Something in me told me to go to the attic,” she announced triumphantly. “That name—Mad Dog Branzillo—it rang a bell in me.”

  Meg looked at her mother-in-law and suddenly the kythe flooded back. “Beezie!” She cried.

  Mrs. O’Keefe lunged toward her as though to strike her. “What’s that?”

  Meg caught the old woman’s hands. “Beezie, Mom. You used to be called Beezie.”

  “How’d you know?” the old woman demanded fiercely. “You couldn’t know! Nobody’s called me Beezie since Chuck.”

  Tears filled Meg’s eyes. “Oh, Beezie, Beezie, I’m so sorry.”

  The family looked at her in astonishment. Mr. Murry asked, “What is this, Meg?”

  Still holding her mother-in-law’s hands, Meg replied, “Mrs. O’Keefe used to be called Beezie when she was a girl. Didn’t you, Mom?”

  “It’s best forgotten,” the old woman said heavily.

  “And you called Charles Wallace Chuck,” Meg persisted, “and Chuck was your little brother and you loved him very much.”

  “I want to sit down,” Mrs. O’Keefe said. “Leave the past be. I want to show you something.” She handed a yellowed envelope to Mr. Murry. “Look at that.”

  Mr. Murry pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s a letter from a Bran Maddox in Vespugia to a Matthew Maddox right here.”

  The twins looked at each other. Sandy said, “We were just talking about Matthew Maddox tonight when we were looking something up for Meg. He was a nineteenth-century novelist. Is there a date on the letter?”

  Mr. Murry carefully drew a yellowed sheet of paper from the old envelope. “November 1865.”

  “So the Matthew Maddox could be the one whose book Dennys studied in college!”

  “Let Father read the letter,” Dennys stopped his twin.

  My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. Is there snow at home? I am settling in well with the group from Wales, and feel that I have known most of them all our lives. What an adventure this is, to start a colony in this arid country where the children can be taught Welsh in school, and where we can sing together as we work.

  The strangest thing of all is that our family legend was here to meet me. Papa and Dr. Llawcae will be wild with excitement. We grew up on the legend of Madoc leaving Wales and coming to the New World, the way other children grew up on George Washington and the cherry tree. Believe it or not—but I know you’ll believe it, because it’s absolutely true—there is an Indian here with blue eyes who says he is descended from a Welsh prince who came to America long before any other white men. He does not know how his forebears got to South America, but he swears that his mother sang songs to him about being the blue-eyed descendant of a Welsh prince. He is called Gedder, though that is not his real name. His mother died when he and his sister were small, and they were brought up by an English sheep rancher who couldn’t pronounce his Welsh name, and called him Gedder. And his sister’s name—that is perhaps the most amazing of all: Zillie. She does not have the blue eyes, but she is quite beautiful, with very fine features, and shining straight black hair, which she wears in a long braid. She reminds me of my beloved Zillah.

  Gedder has been extraordinarily helpful in many ways, though he has a good deal of arrogance and a tendency to want to be the leader which has already caused trouble in this community where no man is expected to set himself above his brothers.

  But how wonderful that the old legend should be here to greet me! As for our sister Gwen, she shrugs and says, “What difference does a silly old story make?” She is determined not to like it here, though she’s obviously pleased when all the young men follow her around.

  Has Dr. Llawcae decided to let Zillah come and join me in the spring? The other women would welcome her, and she would be a touch of home for Gwen. I’m happy here, Matthew, and I know that Zillah would be happy with me, as my wife and life’s companion. Women are not looked down on here—Gwen has to admit that much. Perhaps you could come, and bring Zillah with you? The community is settled enough so that I think we could take care of you, and this dry climate would be better for you than the dampness at home. Please come, I need you both.

  Your affectionate brother,

  Bran

  Mr. Murry stopped. “It’s very interesting, Mrs. O’Keefe, but why is it so important for me to see it?”—that you called in the middle of the night, he seemed to be adding silently.

  “Don’t you see?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Thought you was supposed to be so brilliant.”

  Mrs. Murry said, “The letter was mailed from Vespugia. That’s strange enough, that you should have a letter which was mailed from Vespugia.”

  “Right,” the old woman said triumphantly.

  Mr. Murry asked, “Where did you find this letter, Mrs. O’Keefe?”

  “Told you. In the attic.”

  “And your maiden name was Maddox.” Meg smiled at the old woman. “So they were forebears of yours, this Bran Maddox, and his brother, Matthew, and his sister, Gwen.”

  She nodded. “Yes, and likely his girlfriend, Zillah, too. Maddoxes and Llawcaes in my family all the way back.”

  Dennys looked at his sister’s mother-in-law with new respect. “Sandy was looking up about Vespugia tonight, and he told us about a Welsh colony in Vespugia in 1865. So one of your ancestors went to join it?”

  “Looks like it, don’t it? And that Branzillo, he’s from Vespugia.”

  Mr. Murry said, “It’s a remarkable coincidence—” He stopped as his wife glanced at him. “I still don’t see how it can have any connection with Branzillo, or what it would mean if it did.”

  “Don’t you?” Mrs. O’Keefe demanded.

  “Please tell us,” Mrs. Murry suggested gently.

  “The names. Bran. Zillah. Zillie. Put them together and they aren’t far from Branzillo.”

  Mrs. Murry looked at her with surprised admiration. “How amazing!”

  Mr. Murry asked, “Are there other
letters?”

  “Were. Once.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Gone. Went to look. Began thinking about this Branzillo when I went home. Remembered Chuck and me—”

  “Chuck and you what, Mom?” Meg probed.

  Mrs. O’Keefe pushed her cobwebby hair away from her eyes. “We used to read the letters. Made up stories about Bran and Zillah and all. Played games of Let’s Pretend. Then, when Chuck—didn’t have the heart for Let’s Pretend any more, forgot it all. Made myself forget. But that name, Branzillo, struck me. Bran. Zillah. Peculiar.”

  Mr. Murry looked bemusedly at the yellowed paper. “Peculiar, indeed.”

  “Where’s your little boy?” Mrs. O’Keefe demanded.

  Mr. Murry looked at his watch. “He went for a walk.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour ago.”

  “In the middle of the night, and at his age?”

  “He’s fifteen.”

  “No. Twelve. Chuck was twelve.”

  “Charles Wallace is fifteen, Mrs. O’Keefe.”

  “A runt, then.”

  “Give him time.”

  “And you don’t take care of him. Chuck needs special care. And people criticize me for not taking care of my kids!”

  Dennys, too, looked at his watch. “Want me to go after him, Dad?”

  Mr. Murry shook his head. “No. I think we have to trust Charles Wallace tonight. Mrs. O’Keefe, you’ll stay awhile?”

  “Yes. Need to see Chuck.”

  Meg said, “Please excuse me, everybody. I want to go back to bed.” She tried to keep the urgency from her voice. She felt a panicky need to get back to the attic with Ananda. “Chuck was twelve,” Mrs. O’Keefe had said. Chuck was twelve when what? Anything that happened to Chuck was happening to Charles Wallace.

  Mrs. Murry suggested, “Would you like to take a cup of tea with you?”

  “No, thanks, I’m fine. Someone call me when Charles gets in?”

  Ananda followed her upstairs, contentedly licking her lips for the last buttery crumbs.

  The attic felt cold and she got quickly into bed and wrapped the quilt around herself and the dog.—Charles Wallace wanted me to find a connection between Wales and Vespugia, and Dennys found one in his reference books. But it’s a much closer connection than that. The letter Mrs. O’Keefe brought was from 1865, and from Vespugia, so the connection is as close as her attic.

  Despite the warm glow of the electric heater, she shivered.

  —Those people in the letter must be important, she thought,—and the Bran who wrote the letter, and his sister Gwen. Certainly the name Zillie must have some connection with Madoc’s Zyll, and Ritchie Llawcae’s Zylle, who was nearly burned for witchcraft.

  —And then, the Matthew he wrote to must be the Matthew Maddox who wrote the books. There’s something in that second book that matters, and the Echthroi don’t want us to know about it. It’s all interconnected, and we still don’t know what the connections mean.

  —And what happened to Beezie, that she should end up as Mom O’Keefe? Oh, Ananda, Ananda, whatever happened?

  She lay back against the pillows and rubbed her hand slowly back and forth over the dog’s soft fur, until the tingling warmth moved up her arm and all through her.

  “But why Pa?” Beezie demanded over and over again. “Why did Pa have to die?”

  “There’s never an answer to that question, my Beezie,” the grandmother replied patiently. “It’s not a question to be asking.”

  “But I do ask it!”

  The grandmother looked tired, and old. Chuck had never before thought of her as old, as being any age at all. She was simply Grandma, always there for them. Now she asked, not the children, but the heavens, “And why my Patrick, and him even younger than your father. Why anything?” A tear slid down her cheek, and Beezie and Chuck put their arms around her to comfort her.

  Mrs. Maddox went over the ledgers so patiently kept up to date by her husband. The more she looked, the more slowly her hands turned the pages. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it was this bad. I should have realized when he sold Matthew Maddox’s book …”

  Chuck crawled up into the dark storage spaces under the eaves, looking for treasure. He found a bottle full of pennies, but no gold or jewels to give his mother. He found an old Encyclopaedia Britannica, the pages yellow, the bindings cracked, but still useful. He found a set of china wrapped in old newspapers dated long before he and Beezie were born, which he hoped they might be able to sell. He found a strongbox, locked.

  He brought his findings to the living room. His mother was in the store, but Beezie and the grandmother were there, doing the week’s baking.

  “The pennies are old. They may be worth something. The china’s good. It may pay for our fuel for a month or so. What’s in the box?”

  “There isn’t a key. I’m going to break it.” He took hammer and screwdriver and wrench, and the old lock gave way and he was able to lift the lid. In the box was a sheaf of letters and a large notebook with a crumbling blue leather binding. He opened the book to the first page, and there was a watercolor sketch, faded only slightly, of the spring countryside.

  “Grandma! It’s our rock, our picnic rock!”

  The old woman clucked. “And so it is.”

  The rock was shaded in soft blues and lavenders merging into grey. Behind it the trees were lush with spring green. Above it flew a flock of butterflies, the soft blues of the spring azures complemented by the gold and black of the tiger swallowtails. Around the rock were the familiar spring flowers, dappling the grass like the background of a tapestry.

  Chuck exclaimed in delight, “Oh, Beezie, oh, Grandma!” Reverently he turned the page. In beautiful script was written, Madrun, 1864, Zillah Llawcae.

  The grandmother wiped her floury hands carefully and put on her spectacles, bending over the book. Together they read the first page.

  Madrun.

  Past ten o’clock. Through my bedroom window I can look down the hill to the Maddoxes’ house. Mr. and Mrs. Maddox will be asleep. They get up at five in the morning. Gwen Maddox—who knows? Gwen has always considered herself a grownup and me a child, though we’re separated by only two years.

  The twins, my dear twins, Bran and Matthew. Are they awake? When Bran lied about his age, so afraid was he he’d miss the war, and went to join the cavalry, I feared he might be killed in battle. When I dreamed of his homecoming, as I did each night when I looked at his diamond on my finger and prayed for his safety, I never thought it could be like this, with Bran withdrawn and refusing to communicate with anyone, even his twin. If I try to speak to him about our marriage, he cuts me short, or turns away without a word. Matthew says there have been others who have suffered this sickness of spirit because of the horrors of war.

  I am, and have been for nearly seventeen years, Zillah Llawcae. Will I ever be Zillah Maddox?

  They continued to turn the pages, more quickly now, not pausing to read the journal entries, but looking at the delicate paintings of birds and butterflies, flowers and trees, squirrels and wood mice and tree toads, all meticulously observed and accurately reproduced.

  A shiver ran up and down Chuck’s spine. “Pa’s mother was a Llawcae. This Zillah could be one of our ancestors … and she was alive when she painted all this, and it’s just the way it is now, just exactly the same.”

  He turned another page; his eye was caught, and he read:

  This is my seventeenth birthday, and a sorry one it has been, though Father and I were invited to the Maddoxes’ for dinner. But Bran was there and yet he wasn’t there. He sat at the table, but he hardly ate the delicious dishes which had been especially prepared, to tempt him as much as in honor of me, and if anyone asked him a question he answered in monosyllables.

  He turned the page and paused again.

  Matthew says Bran almost had a conversation with him last night, and he is hopeful that the ghastly war wounds of his mind and spirit are beginning
to heal. I wear his ring with its circle of hope, and I will not give up hoping. What would I do without Matthew’s friendship to comfort and sustain me? Had it not been for Matthew’s accident, I wonder which twin would have asked for my hand? A question better not raised, since I love them both so tenderly.

  The grandmother took the top letter from the packet. “It’s from Bran Maddox, the one Zillah’s talking about, but it’s from some foreign place, Vespugia? Now where would that be?”

  “It’s part of what used to be Patagonia.”

  “Pata—?”

  “In South America.”

  “Oh, then.” She drew the letter out of its envelope.

  My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. It there snow at home? I am settling in well with the group from Wales, and feel that I have known most of them all our lives …

  When she finished reading the letter, she said, “Your poor pa would have been thrilled at all this.”

  Chuck, nodding, continued to turn the pages, reading a line here and there. As well as the nature pictures, the young Zillah Llawcae had many sketches of people, some in ink, some in watercolor. There was an ink drawing of a tall man in a stovepipe hat, carrying a black bag and looking not unlike Lincoln, standing by a horse and buggy. Underneath was written, “Father, about to drive off to deliver a baby.”

  There were many sketches of a young man, just beyond boyhood, with fair hair, a clear, beardless complexion, and wide-apart, far-seeing eyes. These were labeled, “My beloved Bran,” “My dearest Bran,” “My heart’s love.” And there were sketches of someone who looked like Bran and yet not like Bran, for the face was etched with lines of pain. “My dear Matthew,” Zillah had written.

  “It’s so beautiful,” Beezie said. “I wish I could paint like that.”

  But the old woman’s thoughts had shifted to practicality. “I wonder, would this notebook bring a few dollars?”

  “Grandma, you wouldn’t sell it!” Chuck was horrified.

  “We need money, lad, if we’re to keep a roof over our heads. Your ma’ll sell anything she can sell.”