A Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  We have had our first death, and a sad one it was, too. The children are forbidden to climb up onto the cliff which protects the colony from the winds, but somehow or other, one of them managed the steep climb, and fell. We all grieve. It may be a good thing that there is so much work for everybody that there is little idle time, and this helps us all, particularly the parents of the little one. Rich has been a tower of strength. He was the one of us who was able to bring tears from the mother, partly because he was not ashamed to weep himself.

  “He is a good man, that Rich,” Matthew said. “He’d do anything in the world for Gwen.”

  “You talk as though you know him.”

  Matthew smiled at her. “I do. I know him through Bran. And through my novel. What happens with Rich, with Bran, with Gwen, with Zillie—it matters to my story. It could even change it.” She looked at him questioningly. “This book is pushing me, Zillah, making me write it. It excites me, and it drives me. In its pages, myth and matter merge. What happens in one time can make a difference in what happens in another time, far more than we realize. What Gedder does is going to make a difference, to the book, perhaps to the world. Nothing, no one, is too small to matter. What you do is going to make a difference.”

  In the early winter Matthew caught a heavy chest cold, which weakened him, and Dr. Llawcae came daily. Matthew spent the days on the black leather couch, wrapped in blankets. He continued to work on his novel and sold several more stories. He kept his earnings, which were considerable, in a small safe in his study. And now he left the study not at all.

  When he was too exhausted to write, he slid into a shallow sleep, filled with vivid dreams in which Bran and the Vespugian colony were more real than chilly Merioneth.

  He was at the flat rock in his dream, the rock where he used to meet Zillah when he sought privacy. But instead of Zillah there was a boy, perhaps twelve years old, dressed in strange, shabby clothes. The boy was lying on the rock, and he, too, was dreaming, and his dream and Matthew’s merged.

  Gedder is after Gwen. Stop him. The baby must come from Madoc. Gwydyr’s line is tainted. There is nothing left but pride and greed for power and revenge. Stop him, Matthew.

  He saw his twin, but this was not Bran in Vespugia … Was it Bran? It was a young man, about their age, standing by a lake. Behind him stood another, a little older, who looked like Bran and yet not like Bran, for there was resentment behind the eyes. Like Gedder. The two began to wrestle, to engage in mortal combat.

  At the edge of the lake a huge pile of flowers smoldered, with little red tongues of flame licking the petals of the roses—

  “Matthew!”

  He opened his eyes and his mother was hovering over him with a cup of camomile tea.

  Beside the growing pages of the manuscript lay a genealogy which he had carefully worked out, a genealogy which could go in two different directions, like a double helix. In one direction there was hope; in the other, disaster. And the book and Bran and the Vespugian colony were intertwined in his mind and heart.

  The winter was bitter cold.

  “As the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen,” Matthew said to Dr. Llawcae, who listened gravely to Matthew’s heart and his chest.

  He leaned back and looked at the young man. “Matthew, you are encouraging Zillah.”

  Matthew smiled. “I’ve always encouraged Zillah, from the days when we were all children and she wanted to climb trees as high as Bran and I did.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You’re encouraging her in this wild-goose chase to go to Vespugia and join Bran.”

  “When Bran asked you for Zillah’s hand, you gave him your blessing,” Matthew reminded the doctor.

  “That was with the understanding that Bran would stay here and become his father’s partner.”

  “Once a blessing is given, Dr. Llawcae, it cannot be withdrawn.” Matthew urged, “Zillah’s heart is in Vespugia with Bran. I understand how she has taken her mother’s place in your house and at your table. But she is your daughter, Dr. Llawcae, and not your wife, and you must not keep her tied to you.”

  The doctor’s face flushed darkly with anger. “How dare you!”

  “Because I love Zillah with all my heart, and I always have. I will miss her as much as you. Without Zillah, without Bran, I would be bereft of all that makes life worthwhile. But I will not hold them back out of selfishness.”

  The doctor’s face grew darker. “You are accusing me of selfishness?”

  “Inadvertent, perhaps, but selfishness, nonetheless.”

  “You—you—if you weren’t a cripple, I’d—” Dr. Llawcae dropped his raised hand, turned, and left the room.

  One afternoon in March, with occasional splatters of rain coming down the chimney and hissing out in the fire, Matthew looked intensely at Zillah, presiding over the tea tray. “Zillah. It’s time. You must go to Vespugia.”

  “You know I want to.” She reached out to hold his thin fingers. “Father says maybe next year.”

  “Next year’s too late. Bran needs you now. What are you going to do about your father? Next year will always be next year. He’ll not let you go.”

  She stared into the fire. “I’d rather go with Father’s blessing, but I’m afraid you’re right, and he’s not going to give it. The problem is money, and finding a ship, and booking passage—all the things that are difficult, if not impossible, for a girl.”

  “You must go, this spring as soon as the ice breaks and ships can sail.”

  “Why, Matt, such urgency, all of a sudden?”

  “Bran reached out to me last night—”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Not with Bran. But Gedder—Rich—” He was seized with a fit of coughing, and when he leaned back he was too weak to talk.

  Zillah continued to come daily to sit in the lady chair by the fire, to preside over the tea tray, and warm him with her smile. For the next few weeks he did not mention her going to Vespugia. Then one day, when the bare outlines of the trees were softened with coming buds, he greeted her impatiently.

  He could hardly wait for her to sit down behind the tea tray. “Zillah, open the safe.” Carefully, he gave her the combination, watching her fingers twirl the dial as she listened. “All right. Good. Bring out that big manila envelope. It’s for you.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “For me?”

  “I’ve been busy these last weeks.”

  “Father says you’re pushing yourself too hard. Is the book done?”

  “To all intents and purposes. There’s some deepening to do, and a certain amount of revision. But I’ve been busy in other ways. Open the envelope.”

  She did so. “Money, and—what’s this, Matt?”

  “A ticket. There’s a ship sailing for South America in four days. You must be on it.”

  “But, Matthew, I can’t let you—”

  “I’ve earned the money by my writing. It’s mine to do with what I will Zillah, Bran needs you. You must go. You will swing the balance.”

  “What balance?”

  “The line must be Madoc’s and not Gwydyr’s—”

  “I don’t understand. You’re flushed. Are you—”

  “I’m not feverish. It’s part of the book … You do love Bran?”

  “With all my heart.”

  “Enough to leave Madrun without your father’s blessing, and secretly?”

  She held the manila envelope to her breast.

  “You’ll go?”

  “I’ll go.” She took his cold hand and held it to her cheek.

  “All will be well,” he promised. “When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For the fire is roses, roses …”

  He did not see her again. Neither could bear the pain of parting.

  Dr. Llawcae came storming over to Merioneth. Matthew could hear hi
m shouting, “Where did she get the money? How did she get the passage?”

  Matthew smiled, fleetingly grateful that Dr. Llawcae considered him such a cripple that he could not possibly have made the necessary arrangements.

  When the doctor came into the study to check Matthew’s heart, his temper had cooled enough so that he was no longer shouting. “I suppose you’re pleased about this?”

  “Zillah and Bran love each other,” Matthew replied quietly. “It is right that they be together. And you have always been so interested in your Welsh heritage, and in this colony, that you will end up feeling differently. You can visit them—”

  “Easy enough to say. What about my practice?”

  “You haven’t taken a vacation in years. You’ve earned a few weeks away.”

  Dr. Llawcae gave him only a cursory examination, saying, “You’ll feel better when warmer weather comes.”

  Summer was slow in coming.

  Matthew sent the book off to his publisher. The pain in his back was worse each day, and his heart skipped and galloped out of control. In his dreams he was with Bran, waiting for Zillah. He was with Gwen, still resentful, but beginning to laugh again with Rich, to respond to his steadfast love, his outgoing ways. At the same time she was still intrigued by Gedder, by his fierce dark looks and the hiddenness behind his eyes, so unlike Rich’s candid ones. She knew that Rich loved her, but Gedder’s strangeness fascinated her.

  She’s playing with Rich and Gedder and it will make trouble, the boy on the rock told Matthew as he slipped deeper into the dream.

  Gedder and Bran. Standing on the cliff and looking down at the houses of the settlement. Gedder urging Bran to marry Zillie, to give Gwen in marriage to him, in order to secure the future.

  “What future?” Bran asked.

  Gedder looked appraisingly down at the prospering colony. “Ours.”

  And Zillie came and looked adoringly at Bran, Zillie so like and so unlike Zillah.

  Wait, twin! Wait for Zillah! Do not trust Gedder—Matthew was jolted out of the dream as his supper tray was brought. He ate a few bites, then pushed the tray away and slid back into the dream

  Felt the Vespugian heat, warming his chilled bones

  Bran, if only I could have come with Zillah

  Gedder again. Gedder in his favorite place up on the cliff’s lip, looking down on the colony, the colony he wants for his own.

  Someone’s with him. Not Bran. Rich.

  Quarreling. Quarreling over Gwen, over the colony. Quarreling at the cliff’s edge.

  Danger.

  Matthew stirred restlessly on the couch, his eyes tightly closed. The boy was there, the child from another time, urging him. “Matthew, you must help Rich. Please …”

  Once upon a time and long ago, men did not quarrel in this way, when the morning stars sang together and the children of men shouted for joy

  But dissonance came

  Madoc and Gwydyr fought

  Gedder and Rich

  Rich, watch out! Gedder has a knife—

  Rich sees, sees in time, grasps the knife hand, twists it, so that the knife drops. Gedder reaches after it, snarling with anger, reaching for the knife so that he loses his balance and falls—falls after the knife, over the edge of the cliff, falls, falls …

  Zillie screams and cannot stop screaming.

  Matthew waited for the next letter from Bran, but it did not come until the lilac bushes were in full bloom.

  My very dear twin,

  Zillah is here, at last she is here, but my dearest heart has arrived to a community in confusion and desolation. Gwen weeps and will not stop. Zillie’s tears no longer flow, but her eyes hold anguish. Gedder is dead, and—inadvertently—by Rich’s hand. Gedder provoked a quarrel, and drew a knife. Rich took the knife from him, and Gedder, lunging after it, lost his balance and fell from the cliff to his death. It was an accident; nobody blames Rich, even Zillie. But Rich feels he cannot stay here with us, not with blood on his hands.

  Will it ever cease, the turning of brother against brother? Gedder wanted power, and I cannot grieve for his death, only for his life, with its inordinate lust and pride. Why does Gwen weep? I do not think she knows. “I am homesick,” she cries, “I want to go home.” So Rich will take her home. And what will happen then, who knows?

  Gwydyr fought Madoc and lost and the battle continued through to Gedder, brother against brother

  And the ship which brought Zillah carried Gwen and Rich to the Northern continent, to lilies of the valley and lilacs in the dooryard, to Merioneth and the store, and Papa will at last have his partner, and the store will be Maddox and Llawcae

  Oh, Zillah, my Zillah

  Lords of melody and song,

  Lords of roses burning bright,

  Blue will right the ancient wrong,

  Though the way is dark and long,

  Blue will shine with loving light.

  A coughing fit jerked Matthew awake, away from Vespugia, from Bran and Zillah.

  “Gwen—” he gasped, “Rich—Can’t wait—sorry—”

  Then the coughing took him, and when the racking had passed, there was nothing but agony. His back was an explosion of pain and the room began to get dark, and a rank stink like spoiling flowers choked him. There was no longer any light or warmth in the crackling flames …

  “Matthew!” Meg opened her eyes, and she was calling the name aloud. The kitten, disturbed, jumped down from the bed. Ananda did not move.

  —What happened? What happened to Matthew? to Charles Wallace? Is Charles Wallace all right?

  —Strange, she thought,—the kythe with Matthew was clearer than any since Harcels. Maybe because Matthew and Bran were kythers.

  She reached out to Charles Wallace, and felt only absence. Nor did she sense Gaudior. Always, when Charles Wallace was brought out of Within, she could see him, could see the unicorn.

  “I’m going downstairs,” she said aloud, and pushed her feet into her slippers.

  Ananda followed her downstairs, stepping on the seventh step so that it let out a loud groan, and the dog yelped in surprise. Behind them the kitten padded softly, so light that the seventh step made the merest sigh.

  The kitchen fire was blazing, the kettle humming. Everything looked warm and comfortable and normal, except for Mrs. O’Keefe in the rocking chair. The kitten padded across to her and jumped up on her lap, purring, and flexing its sharp little claws.

  Meg asked, “Charles Wallace isn’t back yet?”

  “Not yet. Are you all right, Meg?” her mother asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look pale.”

  “Maybe I’ll take Sandy and Dennys up on their offer of bouillon, if it’s still good.”

  “Sure, Sis,” Sandy said. “I’ll make it. Chicken or beef?”

  “Half a spoon of each, please, and a slosh of lemon juice.” She looked at the twins with fresh comprehension. Was she closer to Charles Wallace than to the twins because they were twins, sufficient unto themselves? She glanced at the phone, then at her mother-in-law. “Mom—Beezie, do you remember Zillah?”

  Mrs. O’Keefe looked at Meg, nodded her head, shook it, closed her eyes.

  “Mom, Zillah really did get to Vespugia, didn’t she?” Meg looked at the old woman, needing reassurance.

  Mrs. O’Keefe huddled her arms about herself and rocked. “I forget. I forget.”

  Mrs. Murry looked anxiously at her daughter. “Meg, what is this?”

  “It makes all the difference who Branzillo’s forebears were.”

  Sandy handed Meg a steaming cup. “Sis, the past has happened. Knowing who Branzillo’s ancestors were can’t change anything.”

  “There was a time when it hadn’t happened yet,” Meg tried to explain, realizing how strange she sounded. “It’s the Might-Have-Been Charles Wallace was to change, and I think he’s changed it. It’s the charge Mom O’Keefe laid on him when she gave him the rune.”

  “Stop talking!” Mrs. O’Keefe pushed
herself up out of the rocking chair. “Take me to Chuck. Quickly. Before it’s too late.”

  TWELVE

  Between myself and the powers of darkness

  They ran, pelting across the frozen ground, which crunched under their feet, Meg and the twins and Mrs. O’Keefe. They ran across the rimed lawn and through the aisles of the twins’ Christmas trees to the stone wall.

  Meg held her hand out to Mrs. O’Keefe and helped her over the low wall. Then, still holding her mother-in-law’s hand, pulling her along, she ran down the path, past the two large glacial rocks, to the star-watching rock.

  Charles Wallace was lying there, eyes closed, white as death.

  “Beezie!” Meg cried. “The rune! Quickly!”

  Mrs. O’Keefe was panting, her hand pressed to her side. “With me …” She gasped. “Grandma …”

  Dennys knelt on the rock, bending over Charles Wallace, feeling for his pulse.

  “With Chuck in this fateful hour,” Mrs. O’Keefe gasped, and Meg joined in, her voice clear and strong:

  “I place all Heaven with its power

  And the sun with its brightness,

  And the snow with its whiteness,

  And the fire with all the strength it hath,

  And the lightning with its rapid wrath,

  And the winds with their swiftness along their path,

  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!”

  Light returned slowly. There had been pain, and darkness, and all at once the pain was relieved, and light touched his lids. He opened them, to the sharpness of starlight. He was lying on the star-watching rock, with Gaudior anxiously bending over him, tickling his cheek with the curly silver beard.

  “Gaudior, what happened?”

  “We barely got you out in time.”

  “Did Matthew—”