Mrs Who wafted over to her, tiny feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, the lenses of her glasses glittering. ‘Come t’è picciol fallo amaro morso! Dante. What grievous pain a little fault doth give thee!’With a clawlike hand she pushed the hat up on Mrs Whatsit’s forehead, untangled the stole from the tree and with a deft gesture took the sheet and folded it.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘You’re so clever!’
‘Un asno viejo sake más que un potro. A. Perez. An old ass knows more than a young colt.’
‘Just because you’re a paltry few billion years —’ Mrs Whatsit was starting indignantly, when a sharp, strange voice cut in.
‘Alll rrightt, girrllss. Thiss iss nno ttime forr bbickkerring.’
‘It’s Mrs Which,’ Charles Wallace said.
There was a faint gust of wind, the leaves shivered in it, the patterns of moonlight shifted, and in a circle of silver something shimmered, quivered, and the voice said, ‘I ddo nott thinkk I willl matterrialize commpletely. I ffindd itt verry ttirinngg, andd wee hhave mmuch ttoo ddoo.’
4
The Black Thing
The trees were lashed into a violent frenzy. Meg screamed and clutched at Calvin, and Mrs Which’s authoritative voice called out, ‘Qquiett, chilldd!’
Did the shadow fall across the moon or did the moon simply go out, extinguished as abruptly and completely as a candle? There was still the sound of leaves, a terrified, terrifying rushing. All light was gone. Darkness was complete. Suddenly the wind was gone, and all sound. Meg felt that Calvin was being torn from her. When she reached for him her fingers touched nothing.
She screamed out, ‘Charles!’ and whether it was to help him or for him to help her, she did not know. The word was flung back down her throat and she choked on it.
She was completely alone.
She had lost the protection of Calvin’s hand. Charles was nowhere, either to save or to turn to. She was alone in a fragment of nothingness. No light, no sound, no feeling. Where was her body? She tried to move in her panic, but there was nothing to move. Just as light and sound had vanished, she was gone, too. The corporeal Meg simply was not.
Then she felt her limbs again. Her legs and arms were tingling faintly, as though they had been asleep. She blinked her eyes rapidly, but though she herself was somehow back, nothing else was. It was not as simple as darkness, or absence of light. Darkness has a tangible quality; it can be moved through and felt; in darkness you can bark your shins; the world of things still exists around you. She was lost in a horrifying void.
It was the same way with the silence.This was more than silence. A deaf person can feel vibrations. Here there was nothing to feel.
Suddenly she was aware of her heart beating rapidly within the cage of her ribs. Had it stopped before? What had made it start again? The tingling in her arms and legs grew stronger, and suddenly she felt movement. This movement, she felt, must be the turning of the earth, rotating on its axis, travelling its elliptic course about the sun. And this feeling of moving with the earth was somewhat like the feeling of being in the ocean, out in the ocean beyond the rising and falling of the breakers, lying on the moving water, pulsing gently with the swells, and feeling the gentle, inexorable tug of the moon.
— I am asleep; I am dreaming, she thought. — I’m having a nightmare. I want to wake up. Let me wake up.
‘Well!’ Charles Wallace’s voice said. ‘That was quite a trip! I do think you might have warned us.’
Light began to pulse and quiver. Meg blinked and shoved shakily at her glasses and there was Charles Wallace standing indignantly in front of her, his hands on his hips. ‘Meg!’ he shouted. ‘Calvin! Where are you?’
She saw Charles, she heard him, but she could not go to him. She could not shove through the strange, trembling light to meet him.
Calvin’s voice came as though it were pushing through a cloud. ‘Well, just give me time, will you? I’m older than you are.’
Meg gasped. It wasn’t that Calvin wasn’t there and then that he was. It wasn’t that part of him came first and then the rest of him followed, like a hand and then an arm, an eye and then a nose. It was a sort of shimmering, a looking at Calvin through water, through smoke, through fire, and then there he was, solid and reassuring.
‘Meg!’ Charles Wallace’s voice came. ‘Meg! Calvin, where’s Meg?’
‘I’m right here,’ she tried to say, but her voice seemed to be caught at its source.
‘Meg!’ Calvin cried, and he turned round, looking about wildly.
‘Mrs Which, you haven’t left Meg behind, have you?’ Charles Wallace shouted.
‘If you’ve hurt Meg, any of you —’ Calvin started, but suddenly Meg felt a violent push and a shattering as though she had been thrust through a wall of glass.
‘Oh, there you are!’ Charles Wallace said, and rushed over to her and hugged her.
‘But where am I?’ Meg asked breathlessly, relieved to hear that her voice was now coming out of her in more or less a normal way.
She looked round rather wildly. They were standing in a sunlit field, and the air about them was moving with the delicious fragrance that comes only on the rarest of spring days when the sun’s touch is gentle and the apple blossoms are just beginning to unfold. She pushed her glasses up her nose to reassure herself that what she was seeing was real.
They had left the silver glint of a biting autumn evening; and now around them everything was golden with light. The grasses of the field were a tender new green, and scattered about were tiny, multicoloured flowers. Meg turned slowly to face a mountain reaching so high into the sky that its peak was lost in a crown of puffy white clouds. From the trees at the base of the mountain came a sudden singing of birds. There was an air of such peace and joy all around her that her heart’s wild thumping slowed.
‘When shall we three meet again,
In thunder, lightning, or in rain?’
came Mrs Who’s voice. Suddenly the three of them were there, Mrs Whatsit with her pink stole askew; Mrs Who with her spectacles gleaming; and Mrs Which still little more than a shimmer. Delicate, multicoloured butterflies were fluttering about them, as though in greeting.
Mrs Whatsit and Mrs Who began to giggle, and they giggled until it seemed that, whatever their private joke was, they would fall down with the wild fun of it. The shimmer seemed to be laughing, too. It became vaguely darker and more solid; and then there appeared a figure in a black robe and a black peaked hat, beady eyes, a beaked nose and long grey hair; one bony claw clutched a broomstick.
‘Wwell, jusstt ttoo kkeepp yyou girrlls happpy,’ the strange voice said, and Mrs Whatsit and Mrs Who fell into each other’s arms in gales of laughter.
‘If you ladies have had your fun I think you should tell Calvin and Meg a little more about all this,’ Charles Wallace said coldly. ‘You scared Meg half out of her wits, whisking her off this way without any warning.’
‘Finxerunt animi, raro et perpauca loquentis,’ Mrs Who intoned. ‘Horace. To action little, less to words inclined.’
‘Mrs Who, I wish you’d stop quoting!’ Charles Wallace sounded very annoyed.
Mrs Whatsit adjusted her stole. ‘But she finds it so difficult to verbalize, Charles dear. It helps her if she can quote instead of working out words of her own.’
‘Anndd wee mussttn’tt looose ourr sensses of hummourr,’ Mrs Which said. ‘Thee onnlly wway ttoo ccope withh ssometthingg ddeadly sseriouss iss ttoo ttry ttoo trreatt itt a llittlle lligghtly.’
‘But that’s going to be hard for Meg,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘It’s going to be hard for her to realize that we are serious.’
‘What about me?’ Calvin asked.
‘The life of your father isn’t at stake,’ Mrs Whatsit told him.
‘What about Charles Wallace, then?’
Mrs Whatsit’s unoiled-door-hinge voice was warm with affection and pride. ‘Charles Wallace knows. Charles Wallace knows that it’s far more than just the life of
his father. Charles Wallace knows what’s at stake.’
‘But remember,’ Mrs Who said, ‘
Euripides. Nothing is hopeless; we must hope for everything.’
‘Where are we now, and how did we get here?’ Calvin asked.
‘Uriel, the third planet of the star Malak in the spiral nebula Messier 101.’
‘This I’m supposed to believe?’ Calvin asked indignantly.
‘Aas yyou llike,’ Mrs Which said coldly.
For some reason Meg felt that Mrs Which, despite her looks and ephemeral broomstick, was someone in whom one could put complete trust. ‘It doesn’t seem any more peculiar than anything else that’s happened.’
‘Well, then, someone just tell me how we got here!’ Calvin’s voice was still angry and his freckles seemed to stand out on his face. ‘Even travelling at the speed of light it would take us years and years to get here.’
‘Oh, we don’t travel at the speed of anything.’ Mrs Whatsit explained earnestly. ‘We tesser. Or you might say, we wrinkle.’
‘Clear as mud,’ Calvin said.
— Tesser, Meg thought. — Could that have anything to do with mother’s tesseract?
She was about to ask when Mrs Which started to speak, and one did not interrupt when Mrs Which was speaking. ‘Mrs Whatsit iss yyoungg andd nnaive.’
‘She keeps thinking she can explain things in words,’ Mrs Who said. ‘Qui plus sait, plus se tail. French, you know. The more a man knows, the less he talks.’
‘But she has to use words for Meg and Calvin,’ Charles reminded Mrs Who. ‘If you brought them along, they have a right to know what’s going on.’
Meg went up to Mrs Which. In the intensity of her question she had forgotten all about the tesseract. ‘Is my father here?’
Mrs Which shook her head. ‘Nnott heeere, Megg. Llett Mrs Whatsitt expllainn. Shee isss yyoungg annd thee llanguage of worrds iss eeasierr fforr hherr thann itt iss fforr Mrs Whoo andd mee.’
‘We stopped here,’ Mrs Whatsit explained, ‘more or less to catch our breaths. And to give you a chance to know what you’re up against.’
‘But what about father?’ Meg asked. ‘Is he all right?’
‘For the moment, love, yes. He’s one of the reasons we’re here. But you see, he’s only one.’
‘Well, where is he? Please take me to him!’
‘We can’t, not yet,’ Charles said. ‘You have to be patient, Meg.’
‘But I’m not patient!’ Meg cried passionately. ‘I’ve never been patient!’
Mrs Who’s glasses shone at her gently. ‘If you want to help your father then you must learn patience. Vitam impendere vero. To stake one’s life for the truth.That is what we must do.’
‘That is what your father is doing.’ Mrs Whatsit nodded, her voice, like Mrs Who’s, very serious, very solemn. Then she smiled her radiant smile. ‘Now! Why don’t you three children wander around and Charles can explain things a little. You’re perfectly safe on Uriel. That’s why we stopped here to rest.’
‘But aren’t you coming with us?’ Meg asked fearfully.
There was silence for a moment. Then Mrs Which raised her authoritative hand, ‘Sshoww themm,’ she said to Mrs Whatsit, and at something in her voice Meg felt prickles of apprehension.
‘Now?’ Mrs Whatsit asked, her creaky voice rising to a squeak. Whatever it was Mrs Which wanted them to see, it was something that made Mrs Whatsit uncomfortable, too.
‘Nnoww,’ Mrs Which said. ‘Tthey mmay aas welll knoww.’
‘Should — should I change?’ Mrs Whatsit asked.
‘Bbetter.’
‘I hope it won’t upset the children too much,’ Mrs Whatsit murmured, as though to herself.
‘Should I change, too?’ Mrs Who asked. ‘Oh, but I’ve had fun in these clothes. But I’ll have to admit Mrs Whatsit is the best at it. Das Werk lobt den Meister. German. The work proves the craftsman.’
‘Now, don’t be frightened, loves,’ Mrs Whatsit said. Her plump little body began to shimmer, to quiver, to shift. The wild colours of her clothes became muted, whitened. The pudding-bag shape stretched, lengthened, merged. And suddenly before the children was a creature more beautiful than any Meg had ever imagined. Outwardly Mrs Whatsit was surely no longer a Mrs Whatsit. She was a marble white body with powerful flanks, something like a horse but at the same time completely unlike a horse, for from the modelled back sprang a nobly formed torso, arms, and a head resembling a man’s, but a man with a perfection of dignity and virtue, an exaltation of joy such as Meg had never before seen. — No, she thought, — it’s not like a Greek centaur. Not in the least.
From the shoulders slowly a pair of wings unfolded, wings made of rainbows, of light upon water, of poetry.
Calvin fell to his knees.
‘No,’ Mrs Whatsit said, though her voice was not Mrs Whatsit’s voice. ‘Not to me, Calvin. Never to me. Stand up.’
‘Ccarrry themm,’ Mrs Which commanded.
Mrs Whatsit knelt in front of the children, stretching her wings wide and holding them steady, but quivering. ‘On to my back, now,’ the new voice said.
The children took hesitant steps towards the beautiful creature.
‘But what do we call you now?’ Calvin asked.
‘Oh, my dears,’ came the new voice, a rich voice with the warmth of a woodwind, the clarity of a trumpet, the mystery of an English horn. ‘You can’t go on changing my name each time I metamorphose. And I’ve had such pleasure being Mrs Whatsit I think you’d better keep to that.’ She? He? It? smiled at them, and the radiance of the smile was as warming as the rays of the sun.
‘Come.’ Charles Wallace clambered up.
Meg and Calvin followed him, Meg sitting between the two boys. A tremor went through the great wings and then Mrs Whatsit lifted and they were moving through the air.
Meg soon found that there was no need to cling to Charles Wallace or Calvin. The great creature’s flight was serenely smooth. The boys were eagerly looking around the landscape.
‘Look.’ Charles Wallace pointed. ‘The mountains are so tall that you can’t see where they end.’
Meg looked upwards and indeed the mountains seemed to be reaching into infinity.
They left the fertile fields and flew across a plateau of granite-like rock shaped into enormous monoliths. These had a definite, rhythmic form, but they were not statues; they were like nothing Meg had ever seen before, and she wondered if they had been made by wind and weather, by the formation of this earth, or if they were a creation of beings like the one on which she rode.
They left the great granite plain and flew over a garden. In it were gathered many of the creatures like the one Mrs Whatsit had become, some lying among the flowers, some swimming in a broad, crystal river, some flying in what Meg was sure must be a kind of dance, moving in and out above the trees. They were making music, music that came not only from their throats but from the movement of their great wings as well.
‘What are they singing?’ Meg asked excitedly.
Mrs Whatsit shook her beautiful head. ‘It won’t go into your words. I can’t possibly transfer it to your words. Are you getting any of it, Charles?’
Charles Wallace sat very still on the broad back, on his face an intently listening look, the look he had when he delved into Meg or his mother. ‘A little. Just a very little. But I think I could get more in time.’
‘Yes. You could learn it, Charles. But there isn’t time. We can only stay here long enough to rest up and make a few preparations.’
Meg hardly listened to her. ‘I want to know what they’re saying! I want to know what it means.’
‘Try, Charles,’ Mrs Whatsit urged. ‘Try to translate. You can let yourself go, now. You don’t have to hold back.’
‘But I can’t!’ Charles Wallace cried in an anguished voice. ‘I don’t know enough! Not yet!’
‘Then try to work with me and I’ll see if I can’t verbalize it a little for them.’
Charles Wal
lace got his look of probing, of listening.
— I know that look! Meg thought suddenly. — Now I think I know what it means! Because I’ve had it myself, sometimes, doing math with father, when a problem is just about to come clear –
Mrs Whatsit seemed to be listening to Charles’s thoughts. ‘Well, yes, that’s an idea. I can try. Too bad you don’t really know it so you can give it to me direct, Charles. It’s so much more work this way.’
‘Don’t be lazy,’ Charles said.
Mrs Whatsit did not take offence. She explained, ‘Oh, it’s my favourite kind of work, Charles. That’s why they chose me to go along, even though I’m so much younger. It’s my one real talent. But it takes a tremendous amount of energy, and we’re going to need every ounce of energy for what’s ahead of us. But I’ll try. For Calvin and Meg I’ll try.’ She was silent; the great wings almost stopped moving. ‘Listen, then,’ Mrs Whatsit said. The resonant voice rose and the words seemed to be all round them so that Meg felt that she could almost reach out and touch them: ‘Sing unto the Lord a new song, and his praise front the end of the earth, ye that go down to the sea, and all that is therein; the isles, and the inhabitants thereof. Let the wilderness and the cities thereof lift their voice; let the inhabitants of the rock sing, let them shout from the top of the mountains. Let them give glory unto the Lord!’
When Mrs Whatsit sighed it seemed completely incomprehensible that through this bliss could come the faintest whisper of doubt.
‘We must go now, children.’ Mrs Whatsit’s voice was deep with sadness, and Meg could not understand. Raising her head, Mrs Whatsit gave a call that seemed to be a command, and one of the creatures flying above the trees nearest them raised its head to listen, and then flew off and picked three flowers from a tree growing near the river and brought them over. ‘Each of you take one,’ Mrs Whatsit said. ‘I’ll tell you how to use them later.’
Wrinkle in Time Page 5