A Ring of Endless Light

by Madeleine L'engle

  "Did I interrupt you?" I asked. "Were you meditating?"

  He smiled at me, his welcoming smile, so I pulled up the chair and sat down. "I was meditating. But I'm glad to see you." His eyes twinkled. He looked relaxed and very much himself.

  "What is meditation, Grandfather? How do you do it?"

  "It isn't exactly something you do."

  "What, then?"

  He was silent a long time, and I thought he wasn't going to answer. I was beginning to get used to his removing himself as completely as though he had left the room; suddenly he just wasn't there. Sometimes he seemed to retreat deep within himself; sometimes he would mumble as though he didn't quite know where he was, as though he was trapped in a bad dream. But now he said to me, and I wasn't sure whether or not he was answering me, or if he was changing the subject, "You like to go down to the cove by yourself, don't you, Vicky? And sit on the rock and look out to sea?"

  "Yes, and usually at the wrong moment, when Mother or Daddy needs me to do something else."

  "But you need to go to the rock and look out to sea, don't you?"

  "Yes, and sometimes I think you're the only one who understands why."

  "What do you do when you go to the rock?"

  "I don't do anything. I sit."

  "Do you think?"

  "Sometimes. But those aren't the best times."

  "What are the best times?"

  "When I sit on the rock--and I feel--somehow--part of the rock and part of the sky and part of the sea."

  "And you're very aware of the rock and the sky and the sea?"

  "Sometimes."

  "And sometimes?"

  "Sometimes it seems to go beyond that."

  "And then what is it like?"

  I thought for a moment. "It's hard to explain because it's beyond words. It's as though I'm out on the other side of myself." I thought of what Adam and I had talked about the other night. I tried to tell Grandfather some of what we had said, and ended, "And it's being part of everything, part of the rock and the sky and the sea and the wind and the rain and the sun and the stars ..."

  "And you, Vicky? Are you still there?"

  No. Yes. How do you explain no and yes at the same time?

  "I'm there--but it's as though I'm out on the other side of myself--I'm not in the way."

  "There's your answer," Grandfather said. "That's meditation."

  I didn't say anything. I was thinking.

  He went on, "People like me spend years learning the techniques of meditation. But you're a poet, and poets are born knowing the language of angels."

  That sounded nice, almost too nice. "I didn't even begin really to write poetry till last year ..." I started.

  But Grandfather said, "Get your father." Blood was pouring down his face.

  I ran out of the stall, yelling, "Daddy!"

  And Daddy came running and so did everybody else.

  "Out," Daddy said to us all, including Mother. As we left, I saw Grandfather, streaming with blood.

  My heart was pounding and I was shaking and my hands were wet and cold. No wonder Rob had been terrified.

  Mother, walking as though in her sleep, went to the kitchen and began wringing out towels with cold water.

  "I'll take them," John said.

  Mother pressed her knuckles against her lips. "No."

  The screen door slammed and Mrs. Rodney came in, shedding a dripping poncho and a sou'wester. "Problem?"

  "Hemorrhage," John said.

  "Something told me to come on over early this morning." She reached for the wet towels and Mother handed them to her, meekly, like a child. "Don't fret." There was solidity in her voice as well as in her chunkiness. "We'll have it under control in no time."

  Rob took Mother's hand, but this was not Rob, my baby brother, reaching out to Mother to be comforted; this was Rob taking Mother's hand to give her comfort.

  Suzy opened the refrigerator. Her hand was trembling.

  "Is all this too much for you kids?" Mother asked. And her voice, like Suzy's hand, trembled.

  "No," John said firmly.

  I poured milk into the little saucepan. "It doesn't matter whether it's too much for us or not. This is where we want to be. With Grandfather. No matter what."

  On her way home, Mrs. Rodney came to me and said that Grandfather would like me to read to him.

  He was in the hospital bed, looking transparent. Mrs. Rodney whispered, "He'll probably fall asleep. Don't mind, it's the best thing you can do for him. We'll give him a transfusion later today. He's not up to it right now."

  There was no sign of the bloodied bedclothes. Mrs. Rodney had bundled them up and taken them with her; she had a washing machine and could soak the blood out in cold water and then run the sheets through the regular cycle; she wouldn't hear of our using the laundromat in the village.

  Grandfather and I were reading a book called Lives of a Cell, so I pulled up a chair and sat down by him. He turned slightly toward me and smiled, and fluttered his long fingers on the clean white coverlet.

  I started to read and, sure enough, when I finished the chapter I saw that his eyes were closed, and his breathing was the quiet and rhythmic breathing of sleep.

  I tiptoed out.

  Leo was sitting with Mother and Daddy in the dining stall, drinking coffee. The rain was driving into the porch, and the porch furniture was shoved back against the wall. It was the first time this summer that we'd had to eat indoors.

  "Where's everybody?" I asked.

  Leo answered, "John's at the lab. Suzy and Jacky are cleaning out the boathouse."

  "And Rob's gone down the road to the big house to play with the Woods' grandson," Mother added.

  The rain lashed against the stable walls. The hanging brass kerosene lamp swayed a little, as though the stable were a ship at sea. It was raining much harder than when I'd gone to meet Adam.

  Leo put down his coffee cup. "First thing we'll go over to the mainland to get blood for Mr. Eaton. I'll give some, too."

  I looked at Daddy. "Can I give some blood for Grandfather?"

  Daddy nodded thoughtfully. "You're his blood type, and you're in good condition. I'll have to give you a note because you're a minor." He rose and headed for the science stall and his desk.

  Leo and I said goodbye and walked out into the rain. The little birds were huddled into their nest. They looked much too big for it.

  "Are they nearly ready to fly?" I asked.

  Leo looked at them without emotion. "Probably not."

  "Think they'll make it?"

  He looked at the subsidiary nest we'd prepared on the stone step. "Wait and see."

  It was lovely to walk in the rain, to feel it against all of my body. I lifted my face to it and began to drink the drops.

  "Better not," Leo warned.

  "Why not?"

  "Rain water's not pure any more. It used to be the purest water there is, but that was before we were born. It's got lots of nasties in it now from the gluck we've put in the atmosphere, strontium 90 and other radioactive horrors."

  "I hate it!" I was as violent as Suzy about the thousand porpoises, and somehow it was all part of the same thing, a wrongness that was deathly. "Is that why the swallows are so stupid about their nests?"

  "I think it goes back a long time further ago than that," he said gently.

  "John says there's lots more leukemia than there used to be and pollution is one of the causes."

  "Could be." Leo led the way to a little VW bug. "Mom said I could take the car today. On the other hand, people used to die a lot earlier, of plagues and pestilences and pneumonias."

  "Okay, I know. Things have been kind of heavy this summer." And Leo's father's death was part of that heaviness.

  We drove to the dock without saying much, and I found that I was quite comfortable being silent with Leo. He also drove a great deal less flashily than Zachary.

  Jacky had the launch ready for us, with a canvas-tarp sort of thing to protect us from the wo
rst of the rain. Suzy stood on the dock looking cute, instead of funny, in a huge mackinaw.

  It was chilly on the water with the rain blowing in, under, around, through the canvas tarp, slipping between sou'wester and poncho and slithering down my neck. I shrugged up my shoulders to try to keep dry. The water was rough and we went up and down, both rolling and yawing, as though we were on a marine roller-coaster. I was grateful I don't get seasick.

  Once I asked, "When we get to the mainland, how do we get to the hospital?"

  "Cor says I can use his pickup."

  "Cor?"

  "Cornelius Codd. The old bloke I play chess with."

  "Cornelius Codd--I don't believe it."

  "It's his real name." Leo pushed the back of his hand across his face to get the rain out of his eyes.

  "I love it, I really do. Not many people have names that fit them so perfectly."

  "How about Leo Rodney?" He turned briefly toward me, his pale lashes trembling with rain.

  Leo's not exactly a lion type. More like a basset hound puppy. "It's a nice name," I evaded.

  He turned back to the sea, his light hazel eyes narrowed as though against sunlight, though the day seemed darker than ever.

  Cornelius Codd was waiting in the doorway of a weathered lean-to. He had an unlit pipe in his mouth and wore a shiny yellow slicker. His old woolen cap was pulled down over his hair. He gestured with the pipe. "Car's out back."

  "Thanks, Cor." Leo shook his hand. "This is Vicky Austin."

  Cornelius Codd took my hand in both of his. Although his hands were calloused and horny, his grasp reminded me of Grandfather's.

  The pickup looked to be about the same age as Cornelius. Leo took my elbow and I put my foot on the high step and jumped into the cab almost as though I were getting on a horse. The leather of the seat was cracked, with bits of stuffing coming out, and the springs had long since sprung. But it still drove. Quite a change after the Alfa Romeo.

  We reached the cement-block cube of the hospital and as Leo drove around to park I saw that behind the modern building were several much older and lower brick buildings, and it was as though the island were light-years away from this drab place of city noises and smells.

  We drove around until we found a place in the crowded parking lot. I stayed close by Leo's side. The only time I'd ever been in a hospital was after my bike accident at home in Thornhill, and it was a small hospital and of course Daddy knew everybody and because I was his daughter I got all kinds of special TLC. This huge complex with its jumble of ancient and modern buildings was very different. I dropped slightly behind Leo, so I could follow. "Do you know where to go?"

  "I'm not sure. I should have checked with Mom. We might as well go in through the emergency room."

  Does picking up blood constitute an emergency? I knew even less than Leo, so I didn't say anything. We went in through the emergency-room door, which was, in fact, the door closest to us, and Leo pointed to an empty seat. "Wait here. I'll go see what's what," he said, and went to stand in line in front of the nurses' desk.

  The room was filled with rows of wooden benches and there were folding chairs against the wall. I looked around at people of all ages and degrees. A nurse was moving along the rows, and I heard one young man say, holding out his finger, "This squirrel just up and bit me, so I thought maybe rabies ..."

  An old woman on the bench in front of me was moaning, "God help me, O God help me, do you have to be bleeding to death before anyone pays any attention?"

  A doctor came out of one of the cubicles, a nurse called out, "Norris," and an old man with a bloody bandage around his hand followed the doctor into the cubicle.

  A woman came in, carrying a limp little girl, maybe three or four years old. A nurse looked at them, touching the child lightly. "Sit down. I'll come take her history in a few minutes."

  The woman found a seat. Was the child already dead? Surely death would constitute an emergency--or maybe it wouldn't, being too late. I couldn't see whether or not the child was breathing. How long would they have to wait?

  I thought I was going to be sick. I swallowed, swallowed.

  Leo was threading his way back across the room, gesturing. I followed him through an inner door and out into a long corridor. I took a deep breath of cool air and my stomach quieted.

  We went up a flight of stairs and down another corridor and into an office where someone told us to wait. I felt that we were in a nightmare.

  Leo nudged me toward a chair. "Leo, I think there's a dead child there and the nurse didn't pay any attention."

  Leo tried to explain. "Mom says there's a nurse trained to look at people and make a quick assessment of who can be helped and who's too late and who's a real emergency and who can wait."

  "Doesn't she ever make mistakes?"

  "Sure. Mom says that's inevitable. Still, it's the best system they've come up with."

  I thought of the old woman who said you had to be bleeding to death before you got any attention. How can anyone, no matter how specially trained, tell who's a real emergency and who isn't?

  A nurse came in and greeted us pleasantly and took Daddy's note saying it was all right for me to give blood. I lay on a high, narrow bed, and a nurse wrapped some rubber tubing tightly around my upper arm, had me make a fist, and then dexterously inserted a needle into a vein on the inside of my elbow. The needle was attached to a tube leading to an empty plastic container and I watched, fascinated, while it began to fill with my blood.

  When it was over, the nurse said, "Sit up slowly now, hon. Sure you don't feel faint?"

  I didn't. Not in this small, clean, uncrowded room. It smelled like Daddy's office and that was a home smell, a good smell.

  The nurse patted my shoulder. "Brave girl. Now I want you to drink this good hot broth before you leave. Your young man's all through, too. He's in the waiting room just outside."

  "Does he have the blood for my grandfather?" I sipped the broth and looked at the calm, kind face of the nurse over the rim and wondered if she could stay this kind and calm if she worked in the emergency room.

  "Everything's all set. Drink slowly, there's no rush. 'Bye, now, dear. You may feel a little dizzy but it will pass, and your blood will give life to someone else."

  I finished the broth. When I stood up I did feel a little dizzy, but it lasted only a moment, and I hurried out to Leo.

  He rose to greet me. "You all right?"

  "Sure. Fine. You?"

  For answer he indicated the parcel in his hand. "Let's get the blood for your grandfather back to the Island."

  Cornelius Codd was waiting in the door of the shack, as though he hadn't moved the entire time we were gone. His woolen cap was dripping rain.

  We delivered the blood to Mrs. Rodney, and Daddy asked us if we felt all right, and we said we were fine. "But the emergency room--" I looked at Mother.

  "As I think back on it, though," Mother said, "I marvel that the nurses were as patient as they were ..."

  Leo looked at me. "When I come home from the hospital I want a swim to clean off."

  Mother glanced at her watch. "It's time for lunch."

  Leo, too, checked his watch, as though synchronizing time. "We'll just go for a quick swim and then I'll take Vicky to the drugstore for a sandwich if it's okay. We did plan to do something together today."

  "Of course, Leo. And thanks for giving up your morning--and your blood. We're very grateful."

  "I'll just go put on my bathing suit," I said, and left to get away from the pain in Mother's voice.

  Leo and I slithered down the steep path to Grandfather's cove. My bathing suit felt wet and clammy from the morning's swim. The rain was falling softly now, and the beach was cool and wet. There were dents in it the size of silver dollars from the heavy rain that had fallen earlier. But now the wind had dropped and the ocean surprised me by murmuring its way quietly into shore.

  I looked out to the horizon and saw the flash of a dolphin. Basil? Norberta? I felt a year
ning ache. "How far can we swim?"

  Leo was breast-deep in water. "I'm not sure. There doesn't seem to be much pull."

  "I saw a dolphin, so we don't need to worry about sharks."

  Leo flung himself into the water and started swimming. He called back to me, "The tide's turning. It'll be on its way in shortly. We can have a good swim."

  I followed after him, slowly. The water was much warmer than the air. I swam, swam, letting the water cleanse me of the lingering horror of the emergency room. I needed desperately to wipe out of my mind's eye the images it retained, so I replaced them with images of Basil, of Norberta, of Njord. I needed the reassurance of their smile. I needed to be assured that the world really isn't like the emergency room of a hospital, that there is hope and goodness and love ...

  I called them silently, hardly realizing what I was doing.

  Leo was swimming parallel with the shore now, as though racing someone. I'd swum quite far beyond him. Then, just as I realized how far out to sea I was and that I ought to turn back, I saw them:

  Norberta and her baby.

  They didn't swim up to me as they did when I was with Adam. They flashed up out of the water in unison, leaping, diving, leaping, beaming at me. They rose up out of the water, standing on their flukes, and then they dove down and disappeared.

  Leo, still racing his invisible opponent, had not even seen.

  I felt a surging sense of relief and elation. I hadn't set out deliberately to call them, but they had heard my need, and they had come in answer to it, but they wanted to reveal themselves only to me, not to Leo. I felt absolutely sure of that, and absurdly happy.

  How can one person be so frightened, and so sad, and then so joyful, in such a short time?

  Even in the rain, it was hot work climbing back up to the stable. I took a quick shower. The bathroom is next to the double stall with the four-poster bed, and when I turned off the shower and was rubbing my hair dry I heard a sound I couldn't identify at first. Then I realized that it was muffled crying.

  I had never before heard Mother cry that way. I didn't know what to do.

  I decided to do nothing. If I went in to her she'd feel she had to stop crying, and I thought maybe she needed to cry. Sometimes if I need to cry I want to do it all alone, without anyone to bother me, even with comfort.