A Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  “Hey, wait!” Polly called.

  Slowly the girl walked toward the star-watching rock.

  “Who are you?” Polly asked.

  “Anaral.” The girl pointed to herself as she said her name. She had on the same soft leather tunic and leggings she had worn the night before, and at her throat was the silver band with the pale stone in the center. The forefinger of her right hand was held out a little stiffly, and on it was a Band-Aid, somehow utterly incongruous.

  “What were you singing? It was beautiful. You have an absolutely gorgeous voice.” With each word, Polly was urging the girl not to run away again.

  A faint touch of peach colored Anaral’s cheeks, and she bowed her head.

  “What is it? Can you tell me the words?”

  The color deepened slightly. Anaral for the first time looked directly at Polly. “The good-morning song to our Mother, who gives us the earth on which we live”—she paused, as though seeking for words—“teaches us to listen to the wind, to care for all that she gives us, food to grow”—another, thinking pause—“the animals to nurture, and ourselves. We ask her to help us to know ourselves, that we may know each other, and to forgive”—she rubbed her forehead—“to forgive ourselves when we do wrong, so that we may forgive others. To help us walk the path of love, and to protect us from all that would hurt us.” As Anaral spoke, putting her words slowly into English, her voice automatically moved into singing.

  “Thank you,” Polly said. “We sing a lot in my family. They’d love that. I’d like to learn it.”

  “I will teach you.” Anaral smiled shyly.

  “Why did you run off last night?” Polly asked.

  “I was confused. It is not often that circles of time overlap. That you should be here—oh, it is strange.”

  “What is?”

  “That we should be able to see each other, to speak.”

  Yes, Polly thought. Strange, indeed. Was it possible that she and Anaral were speaking across three thousand years?

  “You do not belong to my people,” Anaral said. “You are in a different spiral.”

  “Who are your people?”

  Anaral stood proudly. “We are the People of the Wind.”

  “Are you Indians?” Polly asked. It seemed a rude question, but she wanted to know the answer.

  Anaral looked baffled. “I do not know that word. We have always been on this land. I was born to be trained as—you might understand if I said I was a druid.”

  A native American who was a druid? But druids came from Britain.

  Anaral smiled. “Druid is not a word of the People of the Wind. Karralys—you saw him yesterday by the great oak—Karralys brought the word with him from across the great water. You understand?”

  “Well—I’m not sure.”

  “That is all right. I have told you my name, my druid name that Karralys gave me. Anaral. And you are?”

  “Polly O’Keefe. How do you know my language?”

  “Bishop.”

  “Bishop Colubra?”

  Anaral nodded.

  “He taught you?” Now Polly understood why the bishop had been concerned when she talked to him about Anaral and Karralys. And it was apparent that he had not told her grandparents or his sister everything he knew about the Ogam stones and the people who walked the land three thousand years ago.

  “Yes. Bishop taught me.”

  “How do you know him?”

  Anaral held out her hands. “He came to us.”

  “How?”

  “Sometimes”—Anaral swung her black braid over her shoulder—“it is possible to move from one ring to another.”

  Polly had a vision of a picture of an early model of a molecule, with the nucleus in the center and the atoms in shells or circles around it. Sometimes an electron jumped from one shell or circle to another. But this picture of the movement of electrons from circle to circle in a molecule didn’t help much, because Anaral’s circles were in time, rather than space. Except, Polly reminded herself, time and space are not separable. “You came to my time yesterday,” she said. “How did you do it?”

  Anaral put slim hands to her face, then took them down and looked at Polly. “Karralys and I are druids. For us the edges of time are soft. Not hard. We can move through it like water. Are you a druid?”

  “No.” Polly was definite. “But it seems that I am now in your time.”

  “I am in my time,” Anaral said.

  “But if you are, I must be?”

  “Our circles are touching.”

  “Druids know about astronomy. Do you know about time?”

  Anaral laughed. “There are more circles of time than anyone can count, and we understand a few of them, but only a few. I have the old knowledge, the knowledge of the People of the Wind, and now Karralys is teaching me his new knowledge, the druidic knowledge.”

  “Does the bishop know all of this?”

  “Oh, yes. Do you belong to Bishop?”

  “To friends of his.”

  “You belong to the scientists?”

  “I’m their granddaughter.”

  “The one with the crooked fingers and lame knees—Bishop tells me he knows something about time.”

  “Yes. More than most people. But not about—not about going back three thousand years, which is what I’ve done, isn’t it?”

  Anaral shook her head. “Three thousand—I do not know what three thousand means. You have stepped across the threshold.”

  “I don’t know how I did it,” Polly said. “I just set out to walk to the star-watching rock and suddenly I was here. Do you know how I can get back?”

  Anaral smiled a little sadly. “I am not always sure myself how it happens. The circles overlap and a threshold opens and then we can cross over.”

  As Anaral gestured with her hands, Polly noticed again the Band-Aid anachronistically on Anaral’s finger. “What did you do to your finger?”

  “I cut myself with a hunting knife. I was skinning a deer and the knife slipped.”

  “How did you get that Band-Aid? You don’t have Band-Aids in your own time, do you?”

  Anaral shook her head. “Dr. Louise sewed my finger up for me, many stitches. That was more than a moon ago. It is nearly well now. When I could take off the big bandage, Bishop brought me this.” She held up the finger with the Band-Aid.

  “How did you get to Dr. Louise?”

  “Bishop brought me to her.”

  “How?”

  “Bishop saw me right after the knife slipped. The cut was deep, oh, very deep. I bled. Bled. I was scared. Crying. Bishop held my finger, pressing to stop the blood spurting. Then he said,‘Come,’ and we ran—Bishop can really run—and suddenly we were in Dr. Louise’s office.”

  “You don’t have anybody in your own time who could have taken care of the cut for you?”

  “The Ancient Grey Wolf could have. He was our healer for many years, but he died during the cold of last winter. And his son, who should have followed him, died when the winter fever swept through our people a few turns of the sun ago. Cub, the Young Wolf, who will become our healer, still has much to learn. Karralys of course could have helped me, but he was away that day, with the young men, hunting.”

  “Karralys is a druid from Britain?”

  “From far. Karralys is he who came in the strange boat, three turns of the sun back, blown across the lake by a hurricane of fierce winds. He came as we People of the Wind were mourning the death of our Great One, felled by an oak tree uprooted in the storm, picked up like a twig and flung down, the life crushed out of him. He was very old and had foretold that he would not live another sun turn. And out of the storm Karralys came, and with him another from the sea, Tav, who is almost white of hair and has skin that gets red if he stays out in the sun.”

  Tav. That must be the young man with the spear.

  “Where did they come from, Karralys and Tav?”

  “From the great waters, beyond the rivers and the mountains. And lo, at the
very moment that Karralys’s boat touched the shore, the wind dropped, and the storm ended, and a great rainbow arched across the lake and we knew that the Maker of the Stars had sent us a new Great One.”

  “And Tav?” Polly asked.

  Anaral continued, “Tav was in the canoe half dead with fever. Even with all their skill, Karralys and Grey Wolf had a hard time bringing the fever down. Night after night they stayed with Tav, praying. Cub, the Young Wolf, was beside them, watching, learning. The fever went down with the moon and Tav’s breathing was suddenly gentle as a child’s and he slept and he was well. They are a great gift to us, Karralys and Tav.”

  “Is Tav a druid?”

  “Oh, no. He is a warrior. He is our greatest hunter. We have not had to worry about having enough meat since Tav came.”

  Polly frowned, trying to sort things out. “You were born here, in this place?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re a druid?”

  Anaral laughed. “Now. That is what I am called now. For this I was born. And Karralys has trained me in his wisdom. And now there is danger to our people, and Karralys thinks you have been brought across the threshold to help us.”

  “But how could I possibly—” Polly started.

  There was a sharp sound, as of someone stepping on and breaking a twig, and Anaral was off, swift as a deer.

  Polly looked around, but saw no one. “You have been brought across the threshold to help us,” Anaral had said. What on earth did she mean? And how was Polly to get back across the threshold to her own time? Without Anaral, how could she possibly get home?

  She ran after the other girl. Polly had long legs and she ran quickly, but she was not familiar with the path, which zigzagged back and forth, always downhill. Anaral was nowhere to be seen.

  Polly continued on, past the village, around the garden and the cornfield, across the pasture, and then picked up a path which led through a grove of birch and beech trees. She followed it until it opened out at a large flat stone, not quite as large as the star-watching rock. But in this terrain which had been covered by glaciers the topsoil was thin, the bones of the earth close to the surface. She continued on, listening, as she heard water plashing. Then she was standing on a stone bridge under which a small brook ran. She had been here before during her exploring, and it was a lovely place. Trees leaned over the water, dropping golden leaves. She was surrounded by rich October smells, decomposing apples, leaves, hickory nuts, acorns, pinecones, all sending their nourishment into the earth.

  And suddenly she realized that the trees were the trees of her own time, not those of a primeval forest. She was home.

  Chapter Three

  In her own time. Weak with relief, Polly sat on the stone bridge, dangling her legs over the brook, trying to return to normalcy.

  —Why do northern trees shed their leaves? she asked herself.—Is it to reduce their exposure to extreme cold?

  That sounded sensible, and she wanted things to be sensible, because nothing about the morning had been sensible, and inside her warm anorak she felt cold. She got up and continued along the path, looking for the slim girl with a heavy dark braid. But Anaral had been in that other time, not the now of Polly’s present. Nevertheless, she pushed along the path cut through low bushes, and on to a high precipice, from which she could look over the swampy valley to the hills beyond.

  Her uncles, Sandy and Dennys, had cut paths through the brush when they were young, and the wildlife had more or less kept them open. She would need to come out with clippers to cut back some of the overgrowth. She stood on the high rock, looking westward. The landscape rippled with gentle color, muted golds now predominating, green of pine suddenly appearing where fallen leaves had left bare branches.

  Then, below her, down where the bed of the brook should be, she saw a flash of brightness, and Bishop Colubra appeared out of the bushes, wearing a yellow cap and jacket and carrying a heavy-looking stone. A steep path led down the precipice which would have been easy to follow had it not been crisscrossed by bittersweet and blackberry brambles that caught at her as she plunged downhill toward the bishop, scratching her legs and hands, catching in her clothes.

  The bishop was hailing her with pleasure, holding out the stone, and explaining that he hadn’t been looking for Ogam stones but there was one, right there in an old stone wall, and wasn’t it a glorious morning?

  “Bishop!” she gasped as she came up to him. “I’ve been back!”

  He stopped so abruptly and completely that the air seemed to quiver. “What?”

  “I crossed the threshold, or whatever Anaral calls it. I went back to her time.”

  His voice was a whisper. He looked as though he were about to drop the stone. “When?”

  “Just now. I’ve just come out of it. Bishop, while it was happening it was all so sudden and so strange I didn’t have time to feel anything much. But now I think I’m terrified.” Her voice quavered.

  He put the stone down, touched her arm reassuringly. “Don’t be terrified. It will be all right. It will work out according to God’s purpose.”

  “Will it?”

  “I didn’t expect this. That you—You saw her yesterday, at the pool?”

  Polly felt cold, though the sun was warm. “She says that she and Karralys—he’s the one by the oak—she says that they can cross the thresholds of time because they’re druids.”

  “Yes.” The bishop kept his hand on Polly’s shoulder, as though imparting strength. “We’ve lost many gifts that were once available.” He bent down to pick up the stone. “We’d better head back to your grandparents’ house. This is the shortest way, if you want to follow me.” He was definitely wobbly on his long, thin legs, trying to tuck the stone under one arm so that he could balance himself with the other, reaching for small trees or large vines to help pull himself along. They came to another curve of the brook and he stopped, looked at the water flowing between and around rocks, and made a successful leap across, dropping the stone, which Polly retrieved.

  “I’ll carry it for a while,” she offered. She followed the old bishop, who scurried along a nearly overgrown path, then turned sharply uphill, scrabbling his way up like a crab. At their feet were occasional patches of red partridge berries. A spruce branch stretched across their path, and he held it aside for Polly, continuing along his irregular course until he pushed through a thicket of shadblow and wild cherry, and they emerged at the star-watching rock.

  “Bishop,” Polly said. “This—what happened—it’s crazy.”

  He did not speak. The sun rose higher. A soft wind moved through the trees, shaking down more leaves.

  “Maybe I dreamed it?”

  “Sometimes I don’t know what is dream and what is reality. The line between them is very fine.” He took the Ogam stone from her and set it down on the star-watching rock. Folded his legs and sat down, indicated that she was to sit beside him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I got up early and went for a walk, and as I came near the star-watching rock, everything changed. The ground quivered. I thought it was an earthquake. And then I saw that the trees, the mountains—the trees were much bigger, sort of primeval forest. And the mountains were huge and jagged and snow-topped.”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “And I know you’ve been there—back—”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it real?”

  He nodded.

  “Do my grandparents know about this? Dr. Louise?”

  He shook his head. “They don’t believe in such things.”

  “They believe in the Ogam stones.”

  “Yes. They’re tangible.”

  “But haven’t you told them?”

  He sighed. “My dear, they don’t want to hear.”

  “But, Bishop, you took Anaral to Dr. Louise when she cut her finger.”

  “How do you—”

  “Anaral told me.”

  “Yes. Oh, my dear. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t st
op to think. I just took her and ran, and thank heavens Louise was in her office.”

  “So she does know.”

  He shook his head. “No. I told her, and she thought I was joking. Or out of my mind. I’ve tended periodically to bring in waifs and strays for her to mend, and she thinks Annie was just another. Because that’s what she wants to think. Have you had breakfast?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s go on back to your grandparents’ and have some coffee. I need to think. Thursday is All Hallows’ Eve…”

  Halloween. She had completely forgotten.

  He scrambled to his feet. Picked up the Ogam stone. “That may partly explain—the time of year—”

  “Bishop, my grandparents don’t know you’ve done what I did—gone back three thousand years?”

  “Do you realize how extraordinary it sounds? They’ve never seen Karralys or Anaral. But you’ve seen them. You’ve crossed the threshold. If you hadn’t, would you believe it?”

  He was right. The whole thing did sound crazy. Time thresholds. Three thousand years. Circles of time. But it had happened. She didn’t see how she and the bishop could have dreamed the same dream. “Bishop—how long have you been going—going back and forth? Between then and now?”

  “Since last spring. A few months after I came to live with Louise.”

  “How often?”—Often enough to teach Anaral to speak English, she thought.

  “Reasonably often. But I can’t plan it. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. Polly, child, let’s go. I really feel the need to confess to your grandparents, whether they believe me or not.”

  “They’re pretty good at believing,” Polly said. “More than most people.”

  The bishop shifted the stone from one arm to the other. “I never thought you’d become involved. I never dreamed this could happen. That you should—I feel dreadfully responsible—”

  She offered, “Shall I carry the Ogam stone?”

  “Please.” He sounded terribly distraught.

  She took the stone and followed him. When they crossed the wall that led to the field, Polly saw Louise the Larger watching them, not moving. The bishop, not even noticing the snake, scrambled across the wall and started to run toward the house.