A Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  “He died. We didn’t expect it quite so soon. The Echthroi—”

  “I guess we got to 1865 after all.” Charles Wallace looked up at the stars.

  “Stand up.” Gaudior sounded cross. “I don’t like to see you lying there. I thought you were never going to open your eyes.”

  Charles Wallace scrambled to his feet, lifted one leg, then the other. “How strange to be able to use my legs again—how wonderful.”

  Gaudior knelt beside him. “Climb.”

  Charles Wallace, legs shaky as though from long disuse, clambered onto the great back.

  He rode a Gaudior who had become as tiny as a dragonfly, rode among the fireflies, joining their brilliant dance, twinkling, blinking, shooting over the star-watching rock, over the valley, singing their song, and he was singing, too, and he was himself, and yet he was all he had learned, he carried within himself Brandon and Chuck and their song and the song was glory …

  And he rode a Gaudior who had become as large as a constellation, rode among the galaxies, and he was himself, and he was also Madoc, and he was Matthew, Matthew flying through showers of stars, caught up in the joy of the music of the spheres …

  part of the harmony, part of the joy

  The silver neigh of the unicorn sounded all about the star-watching rock, rippling over Meg and the twins, Mrs. O’Keefe and Charles, and the night was illumined by the flash of the horn, blinding them with oblivion as it pointed at each of them in turn.

  Meg thought she heard Charles Wallace call, “Gaudior, goodbye—oh, Gaudior, goodbye …”

  Who was Gaudior?

  She knew once who Gaudior was.

  Again she heard his silver knell ringing in farewell.

  Sandy asked, “Hey, did you see lightning?”

  Dennys looked bewildered. “It’s too cold. And look at all the stars.”

  “What was that flash, then?”

  “Beats me. Like everything else tonight. Charles, what was with you? I couldn’t find a pulse and then suddenly it throbbed under my fingers.”

  Slowly, color was returning to the boy’s cheeks. “You came just in time.” He looked at Mrs. O’Keefe, who still had her hand to her side and was breathing with painful gasps. “Beezie. Thank you.” There was infinite sadness in his voice.

  “That’s what Meg called her,” Sandy said. “What is all this?”

  “Mom O’Keefe laid a charge on me …”

  Dennys said, “We told you it was nuts for you to think you could stop Branzillo single-handed. Did you fall asleep or something? You could have got frostbite.” He sounded concerned and uncertain.

  “Come on in, now,” Sandy added, “and no more of this nonsense.”

  “After the president’s call, you call it nonsense?” Meg demanded fiercely.

  “Meg, you shouldn’t be out in the cold,” Dennys objected.

  “I’m all right.”

  Charles Wallace took Mrs. O’Keefe’s hands in his. “Thank you.”

  “Chuck’s no idiot.” Mrs. O’Keefe thumped Charles Wallace on the shoulder.

  “Come on,” Sandy urged. “Let’s get moving.”

  Dennys held Mrs. O’Keefe’s arm. “We’ll help you.” They returned to the house, Sandy and Dennys supporting Mrs. O’Keefe; Meg holding Charles Wallace’s hand as though they were both small children once more.

  Ananda greeted them ecstatically.

  Mrs. Murry hurried to her youngest son, but refrained from touching him. “She’s really adopted us, hasn’t she? You’d think she’d been with us forever.”

  “Watch out for that tail.” Mr. Murry moved between the dog and the model of the tesseract. “A couple of indiscriminate wags and you could undo years of work.” He turned to his daughter. “Meg, you shouldn’t have gone out in this weather with your cold.”

  “It’s all right, Father. My cold’s better and I didn’t get chilled. Did the president—”

  “No. Nothing yet.”

  Meg tried to think. What did she remember? The president’s call, of course. Mrs. O’Keefe’s rune, and the response of the weather. The coming of Ananda. Kything with Charles Wallace in the attic, kything through aeons of time, kything which had faded to dreams because the unicorn—

  A unicorn. That was absurd.

  There was Mrs. O’Keefe’s phone call in the middle of the night. Sandy went for her and brought her back to the house, and she had an old letter—who was it from? What did it say?

  “Well, Charles.” Mr. Murry regarded his son gravely. “How about the charge?”

  Charles Wallace did not reply immediately. He was studying the model of the tesseract, and he touched one of the Lucite rods carefully, so that the entire model began to vibrate, to hum softly, throwing off sparkles of brilliance. “We still don’t know much about time, do we? I think—” He looked bewildered. “Father, I think it’s going to be all right. But not because I was intelligent, or brave, or in control. Meg was right, earlier this evening, when she talked about everything, everywhere, interreacting.”

  “You were gone longer than we expected.”

  “I was gone a long time. An incredibly long time.”

  “But what did you do?” Sandy asked.

  “And where did you go?” Dennys added.

  “Mostly I stayed right by the star-watching rock—”

  “Father!” Meg exclaimed. “The letter Mom O’Keefe brought. Charles hasn’t seen it.”

  Mrs. O’Keefe held out the yellowed paper to Mr. Murry.

  “Please read it to me, Father.” Charles Wallace looked pale and exhausted.

  “My dear Gwen and Rich,” Mr. Murry read,

  Thank you for writing us so promptly of Papa’s death. Zillah and I are grateful that he died peacefully in his sleep, with none of the suffering he feared. I know that you both, and little Zillah, are a consolation for Mama. And Papa had the satisfaction of having Rich for his partner, and of knowing that the name of Maddox and Llawcae will not be lost, for our young Rich talks with great enthusiasm about going to Merioneth when he is old enough.

  Our little Matthew is a rapidly growing boy. I had hoped that as he grew out of babyhood he would be called Matthew, but he keeps the nickname given him by the Indian children, Branzillo, a combination of my name and Zillah’s. Little Rich tries to keep up with his big brother in every way …

  Mr. Murry looked up. “The letter breaks off there. Strange—it seems diff—is that what I read before?”

  Mrs. Murry frowned slightly. “I’m not sure. It didn’t sound quite—but we’re all exhausted with strain and lack of sleep. Memory plays queer tricks at times like this.”

  “It has to be what Father read before,” Sandy said flatly. “It offends my reasonable mind, but it really does seem possible that Branzillo’s forebears came from around here.”

  “The letter did come from Mrs. O’Keefe’s attic,” Dennys said. “So it’s even likely that he’s distantly descended from her forebears, and that would make them umpteenth cousins.”

  Sandy protested, “But what effect could that have on his starting a nuclear war? Or—we hope—on not starting one?”

  Charles Wallace turned away from the argument, looked once more at the tesseract, then went to Mrs. O’Keefe, who was once again huddled in the rocking chair in front of the fire. Meg left the twins and followed Charles Wallace.

  “Beezie,” he asked softly, “what happened to Chuck?”

  —Beezie, Chuck. They were in the vanishing kythe. Meg stepped closer to the rocker to hear Mrs. O’Keefe’s reply.

  “He died,” she said bleakly.

  “How?”

  “They took him away and put him in an institution. He died there, six months later.”

  Charles Wallace expelled a long, sad breath. “Oh, Beezie, Beezie. And the baby?”

  “Took after Duthbert Mortmain. Died in the State Penitentiary. Embezzlement. Let it be. What’s done’s done. What’s gone’s gone.”

  Ananda pressed against Meg, and she stroked th
e raised head.

  Beezie. Chuck. Paddy O’Keefe. The kythe flickered briefly in Meg’s mind. Beezie must have married Paddy for more or less the same reasons that her mother had married Duthbert Mortmain. And she learned not to feel, not to love, not even her children, not even Calvin. Not to be hurt. But she gave Charles Wallace the rune, and told him to use it to stop Mad Dog Branzillo. So there must be a little of the Old Music left in her.

  “Matthew’s book,” Charles Wallace said. “It’s happening, all that he wrote.”

  The phone rang.

  Mrs. Murry looked toward her husband, but did not speak.

  They waited tensely.

  “Yes, Mr. President?” Mr. Murry listened, and as he listened, he smiled. “El Zarco is setting up a Congress for the working out of peace plans and the equitable distribution and preservation of the earth’s resources. What’s that, Mr. President? He wants me to come as an advisor on the use of space for peace? Well, yes, of course, for a few weeks … This is splendid news. Thank you for calling.” He put down the receiver and turned to his family.

  “El Zarco—” Meg whispered.

  “Madog Branzillo’s favorite nickname, you know that,” her father said. “The Blue-eyed.”

  “But his threats—”

  Her father looked at her in surprise. “Threats?”

  “Of war—”

  Everybody except Charles Wallace and Mrs. O’Keefe was looking at her.

  “The phone call before dinner—” she said. “Wasn’t the president afraid of war?”

  “El Zarco has put down the militant members of his cabinet. He’s always been known as a man of peace.”

  Charles Wallace spoke softly, so only Meg could hear. “They haven’t traveled with a unicorn, Meg. There was no El Rabioso for them. When Matthew sent Zillah to marry Bran, and when Gedder was killed, that was the Might-Have-Been. El Rabioso was never born. It’s always been El Zarco.” He held her hand so tightly that it hurt.

  Mrs. O’Keefe looked at Meg, nodding. “Baby will be born.”

  “Oh, Mom,” Meg cried. “Will you be glad to be a grandmother?”

  “Too late,” the old woman said. “Take me home. Chuck and Grandma are waiting for me.”

  “What’s that?” Mr. Murry asked.

  “Chuck and Grandma—never mind. Just take me home.”

  “I’ll drive you,” Mr. Murry said.

  Meg kissed her mother-in-law good night. It was the first time she had ever kissed her. “See you, Mom. See you soon.”

  When the car drove off, Dennys turned to his sister. “I’m not sure she’ll make it to be a grandmother, Meg. I think her heart’s running out.”

  “Why?”

  “Badly swollen ankles. Blue tinge to her fingernails and lips. Shortness of breath.”

  “She ran all the way to the star-watching rock.”

  “She was short of breath before then. It’s a wonder it didn’t kill her. And what all that was about I’ll never know.”

  “This whole evening’s confusing,” Sandy agreed. “I suggest we just forget it and go to bed. And Mrs. O’Keefe would never have made it back without Dennys and me, Meg. But you’re right, Mother, she’s quite an old girl.”

  “She is, indeed,” Mrs. Murry agreed. “And I agree with you, Sandy, about getting to bed. Meg, you need your sleep.”

  The baby within Meg stirred. “You’re more than right about Mom O’Keefe, Mother, more right than any of us could possibly have imagined. There’s much much more to her than meets the eye. I hate the thought of losing her, just as we’re discovering her.”

  Charles Wallace had once again been contemplating the intricate model of the tesseract. He spoke softly to his sister. “Meg, no matter what happens, even if Dennys is right about her heart, remember that it was herself she placed, for the baby’s sake, and yours, and Calvin’s, and all of us—”

  Meg looked at him questioningly.

  Charles Wallace’s eyes as he returned her gaze were the blue of light as it glances off a unicorn’s horn, pure and clear and infinitely deep. “In this fateful hour, it was herself she placed between us and the powers of darkness.”

  Many Waters

  MADELEINE L’ENGLE

  Square Fish

  An Imprint of Holtzbrinck Publishers

  MANY WATERS.

  Copyright © 1986 by Crosswicks, Ltd. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address Square Fish, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  L’Engle, Madeleine.

  Many waters.

  p. cm.

  Summary: The fifteen-year-old Murry twins, Sandy and Dennys, are accidentally sent back to a strange biblical time period, in which mythical beasts roam the desert and a man named Noah is building a boat in preparation for a great flood.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36857-9

  ISBN-10: 0-312-36857-7

  1. Noah (biblical figure)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Noah (biblical figure)—Fiction. 2. Noah’s ark—Fiction. 3. Twins—Fiction. 4. Time travel—Fiction. 5. Fantasy] I. Title.

  PZ7.L5385 Man 1986

  [Fic] 86-14911

  Originally published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  First Square Fish Edition: May 2007

  eISBN 9781429994361

  First eBook edition: June 2013

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author’s copyright, please notify the publisher at: us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.

  For Stephen Roxburgh

  ONE

  Virtual particles and virtual unicorns

  A sudden snow shower put an end to hockey practice.

  “We can’t even see the puck,” Sandy Murry shouted across the wind. “Let’s go home.” He skated over to the side of the frozen pond, sitting on an already snow-covered rock to take off his skates.

  There were calls of agreement from the other skaters. Dennys, Sandy’s twin brother, followed him, snow gathering in his lashes, so that he had to blink in order to see the rock. “Why do we have to live in the highest, coldest, windiest spot in the state?”

  Hoots of laughter and shouted goodbyes came from the other boys. “Where else would you want to live?” Dennys was asked.

  Snow was sliding icily down the inside of his collar. “Bali. Fiji. Someplace warm.”

  One of the boys knotted his skate laces and slung his skates around his neck. “Would you really? With all those tourists?”

  “Yeah, and jet-setters crowding the beach.”

  “And beautiful people.”

  “And litterbugs.”

  One by one the other boys drifted off, leaving the twins. “I thought you liked winter,” Sandy said.

  “By mid-March, I’m getting tired of it.”

  “But you wouldn’t really want to go to some tourists’ paradise, would you?”

  “Oh, probably not. Maybe I would have, in the olden days, before the population explosion. I’m famished. Race you home.”

  By the time they reached their house, an old white farmhouse about a mile from the village, the snow was beginning to let up, though the wind was still strong. They went in through the garage, past their mother’s lab. Pulling off their windbreakers, they threw them at hooks, and burst into the kitchen.

  “Where’s everybody?” Sandy called.

  Dennys pointed to a piece of paper held by magnets to the refrigerator door. They both went up to it, to read:

  DEAR TWINS, AM OFF TO TOWN WITH MEG AND CHARLES WALLACE FOR OUR DENTAL CHECKUPS. YOUR TURN IS NEXT WEEK. DON’T THINK YOU CAN GET OUT OF IT. YOU’VE BOTH GROWN SO MUCH THIS YEAR THAT IT IS ESSENTIAL YOU HAVE YOUR TEETH CHECKED
.

  LOVE, MOTHER

  Sandy bared his teeth ferociously. “We’ve never had a cavity.”

  Dennys made a similar grimace. “But we have grown. We’re just under six feet.”

  “Bet if we were measured today we’d be over.”

  Dennys opened the door to the refrigerator. There was half a chicken in an earthenware dish, with a sign:

  VERBOTEN. THIS IS FOR DINNER.

  Sandy pulled out the meat keeper. “Ham all right?”

  “Sure. With cheese.”

  “And mustard.”

  “And sliced olives.”

  “And ketchup.”

  “And pickles.”

  “No tomatoes here. Bet you Meg made herself a BLT.”

  “There’s lots of liverwurst. Mother likes that.”

  “Yuck.”

  “It’s okay with cream cheese and onion.”

  They put their various ingredients on the kitchen counter and cut thick slices of bread fresh from the oven. Dennys peered in to sniff apples slowly baking. Sandy looked over to the kitchen table, where Meg had spread out her books and papers. “She’s taken more than her fair share of the table.”

  “She’s in college,” Dennys defended. “We don’t have as much homework as she does.”

  “Yeah, and I’d hate that long commute every day.”

  “She likes to drive. And at least she gets home early.” Dennys plunked his own books down on the big table.

  Sandy stood looking at one of Meg’s open notebooks. “Hey, listen to this. Do you suppose we’ll have this kind of junk when we’re in college? It seems quite evident that there was definite prebiotic existence of protein ancestors of polymers, and that therefore the primary beings were not a-amino acids. I suppose she knows what she’s writing about. I haven’t the foggiest.”

  Dennys flipped back a page. “Look at her title. The Million Doller question: the chicken or the egg, amino acids or their polymers. She may be a mathematical genius, but she still can’t spell.”

  “You mean, you know what she’s writing about?” Sandy demanded.

  “I have a pretty good idea. It’s the kind of thing Mother and Dad argue about at dinner—polymers, virtual particles, quasars, all that stuff.”