The Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  Meg answered with another question. “Does the name Branwen mean anything? It’s sort of odd.”

  “It’s a common enough Irish name. I think the first Branwen was a queen in Ireland, though she came from England. Perhaps she was a Pict, I’m not sure.”

  “When?” Charles Wallace asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. Long ago.”

  “More than two thousand years?”

  “Maybe three thousand. Why?”

  Charles Wallace poured milk into his tea and studied the cloudy liquid. “It just might be important. After all, it’s Mom O’Keefe’s name.”

  “She was born right here in the village, wasn’t she?” Meg asked.

  Her father replied, “There’ve been Maddoxes here as far back as anybody remembers. She’s the last of the name, but they were an important family in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They’ve known hard times since then.”

  “What happened?” Charles Wallace pursued.

  Mr. Murry shook his head. “I keep thinking that one of these years your mother or I’ll have time to do research into the early years of the village. Our roots are here, too, buried somewhere in the past. I inherited this house from a great-aunt I hardly knew, just at the time we were making up our minds to leave the pressures of the city and continue our research in peace and quiet—and getting the house swung the balance.”

  “As for time for other interests”—Mrs. Murry sounded rueful—“we don’t have any more time than we did in the city. But at least here the pressure to work is our own, and not imposed on us.”

  “This Branwen—” Charles Wallace persisted, “was she an important queen?”

  Mrs. Murry raised her fine brows. “Why this sudden and intense interest?”

  “Branwen Maddox O’Keefe was extraordinarily interesting this evening.”

  Mrs. Murry sipped her tea. “I haven’t thought about the mythologies of the British Isles since you all grew too old for reading aloud at bedtime. I suspect Branwen must have been important or I wouldn’t remember her at all. Sorry not to be able to tell you more. I’ve been thinking more about cellular biology than mythology these last few years.”

  Charles Wallace finished his tea and put the cup in the sink. “All right if I go for a walk?”

  “I’d rather not,” his father said. “It’s late.”

  “Please, Father, I need to listen.” He sounded and looked very young.

  “Can’t you listen here?”

  “Too many distractions, too many people’s thoughts in the way …”

  “Can’t it wait?”

  Charles Wallace looked at his father without answering.

  Mr. Murry sighed. “None of us takes Mrs. O’Keefe and all that happened this evening lightly, but you’ve always tended to take too much on yourself.”

  The boy’s voice strained. “This time I’m not taking it on myself. Mrs. O’Keefe put it on me.”

  His father looked at him gravely, then nodded. “Where are you going?”

  “Not far. Just to the star-watching rock.”

  Mr. Murry rinsed his teacup, rinsed it, and rinsed it again. “You’re still a child.”

  “I’m fifteen. And there’s nothing to hurt me between home and the star-watching rock.”

  “All right. Don’t stay long.”

  “No longer than necessary.”

  “Take Ananda with you.”

  “I need to be alone. Please, Father.”

  Mr. Murry took off his glasses, looked at his son through them at a distance, put them on again. “All right, Charles.”

  Meg looked at her mother and guessed that she was holding back from telling her youngest child not to forget to put on boots and a warm jacket.

  Charles Wallace smiled toward their mother. “I’ll wear the blue anorak Calvin brought me from Norway.” He turned the last of his smile to his sister, then went into the pantry, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind him.

  “Time for the rest of us to go to bed,” Mrs. Murry said. “You particularly, Meg. You don’t want to catch more cold.”

  “I’ll take Ananda with me.”

  Her father objected. “We don’t even know if she’s housebroken.”

  “She ate like a well-trained dog.”

  “It’s up to you, then.”

  Meg did not know why she felt such relief at the coming of the big yellow dog. After all, Ananda could not be her dog. When Calvin returned from London they would go back to their rented apartment, where pets were not allowed, and Ananda would remain with the Murrys. But that was all right; Ananda, she felt, was needed.

  The dog followed Meg upstairs as though she’d been with the Murrys all her life, trotted through the cluttered attic and into Meg’s room. The kitten was asleep on the bed, and the big dog sniffed the small puff of fur, tail wagging in an ecstasy of friendliness. Her tail was large and long, with a smattering of golden feathers, which might possibly indicate some kind of setter or Labrador blood in her genetic pattern, the kind of tail which could create as much havoc in a china shop as a bull. The kitten opened its eyes, gave a small, disinterested hiss, and went back to sleep. With one leap, Ananda landed on the bed, thumping heavily and happily with her mighty tail. The kitten rose and stalked to the pillow.

  As she had so often said to Fortinbras, Meg announced, “Sleeping on the bed isn’t allowed.” Ananda’s amber eyes looked at her imploringly and she whined softly. “Well—only up here. Never downstairs. If you want to be part of this household you’ll have to understand that.”

  Ananda thumped; light from the student lamp glinted against her eyes, turning them to gold. Her coat shone with a healthy glow.

  “Make way for me.” Meg climbed back into bed. “Now, Ananda”—she was taking comfort in reverting to her child’s habit of talking out loud to the family animals—“what we’re going to do is listen, very intently, for Charles Wallace. You have to help me kythe, or you’ll have to get off the bed.” She rubbed her hand over Ananda’s coat, which smelled of ferns and moss and autumn berries, and felt a warm and gentle tingling, which vibrated through her hand and up her arm. Into her mind’s eye came a clear image of Charles Wallace walking across what had once been the twins’ vegetable garden, but which was now a small grove of young Christmas trees, a project they could care for during vacations. Their magnificent vegetable garden had been plowed under when they went to college. Meg missed it, but she knew that both her parents were much too busy to tend to more than a small patch of lettuce and tomatoes.

  Charles Wallace continued to walk along the familiar route.

  Hand resting on Ananda, the tingling warmth flowing back and forth between them, Meg followed her brother’s steps. When he reached the open space where the star-watching rock was, Ananda’s breathing quickened; Meg could feel the rise and fall of the big dog’s rib cage under her hand.

  There was no moon, but starlight touched the winter grasses with silver. The woods behind the rock were a dark shadow. Charles Wallace looked across the valley, across the dark ridge of pines, to the shadows of the hills beyond. Then he threw back his head and called,

  “In this fateful hour I call on all

  Heaven with its power!”

  The brilliance of the stars increased. Charles Wallace continued to gaze upward. He focused on one star which throbbed with peculiar intensity. A beam of light as strong as a ladder but clear as water flowed between the star and Charles Wallace, and it was impossible to tell whether the light came from the piercing silver-blue of the star or the light blue eyes of the boy. The beam became stronger and firmer and then all the light resolved itself in a flash of radiance beside the boy. Slowly the radiance took on form, until it had enfleshed itself into the body of a great white beast with flowing mane and tail. From its forehead sprang a silver horn which contained the residue of the light. It was a creature of utter and absolute perfection.

  The boy put his hand against the great white flanks, which heaved as though the creature had been
racing. He could feel the warm blood coursing through the veins as the light had coursed between star and boy. “Are you real?” he asked in a wondering voice.

  The creature gave a silver neigh which translated itself into the boy’s mind as “I am not real. And yet in a sense I am that which is the only reality.”

  “Why have you come?” The boy’s own breath was rapid, not so much with apprehension as with excitement and anticipation.

  “You called on me.”

  “The rune—” Charles Wallace whispered. He looked with loving appreciation at the glorious creature standing beside him on the star-watching rock. One silver-shod hoof pawed lightly, and the rock rang with clarion sound. “A unicorn. A real unicorn.”

  “That is what you call me. Yes.”

  “What are you, really?”

  “What are you, really?” the unicorn countered. “You called me, and because there is great need, I am here.”

  “You know the need?”

  “I have seen it in your mind.”

  “How is it that you speak my language?”

  The unicorn neighed again, the sound translucent as silver bubbles. “I do not. I speak the ancient harmony.”

  “Then how is it that I understand?”

  “You are very young, but you belong to the Old Music.”

  “Do you know my name?”

  “Here, in this When and Where, you are called Charles Wallace. It is a brave name. It will do.”

  Charles Wallace stretched up on tiptoe to reach his arms about the beautiful beast’s neck. “What am I to call you?”

  “You may call me Gaudior.” The words dropped on the rock like small bells.

  Charles Wallace looked thoughtfully at the radiance of the horn. “Gaudior. That’s Latin for more joyful.”

  The unicorn neighed in acquiescence.

  “That joy in existence without which …”

  Gaudior struck his hoof lightly on the rock, with the sound of a silver trumpet. “Do not push your understanding too far.”

  “But I’m not wrong about Gaudior?”

  “In a sense, yes; in a sense, no.”

  “You’re real and you’re not real; I’m wrong and I’m right.”

  “What is real?” Gaudior’s voice was as crystal as the horn.

  “What am I supposed to do, now that I’ve called on all Heaven with its power and you’ve come?”

  Gaudior neighed. “Heaven may have sent me, but my powers are closely defined and narrowly limited. And I’ve never been sent to your planet before. It’s considered a hardship assignment.” He looked down in apology.

  Charles Wallace studied the snow-dusted rock at his feet. “We haven’t done all that well by our planet, have we?”

  “There are many who would like to let you wipe yourselves out, except it would affect us all; who knows what might happen? And as long as there are even a few who belong to the Old Music, you are still our brothers and sisters.”

  Charles Wallace stroked Gaudior’s long, aristocratic nose. “What should I do, then?”

  “We’re in it together.” Gaudior knelt delicately and indicated that Charles Wallace was to climb up onto his back. Even with the unicorn kneeling, it was with difficulty that the boy clambered up and sat astride, up toward the great neck, so that he could hold on to the silver mane. He pressed his feet in their rubber boots as tightly as he could against the unicorn’s flanks.

  Gaudior asked, “Have you ridden the wind before?”

  “No.”

  “We have to be careful of Echthroi,” Gaudior warned. “They try to ride the wind and throw us off course.”

  “Echthroi—” Charles Wallace’s eyes clouded. “That means the enemy.”

  “Echthroi,” Gaudior repeated. “The ancient enemy. He who distorted the harmony, and who has gathered an army of destroyers. They are everywhere in the universe.”

  Charles Wallace felt a ripple of cold move along his spine.

  “Hold my mane,” the unicorn advised. “There’s always the possibility of encountering an Echthros, and if we do, it’ll try to unseat you.”

  Charles Wallace’s knuckles whitened as he clutched the heavy mane. The unicorn began to run, skimming over the tops of the grasses, up, over the hills, flinging himself onto the wind and riding with it, up, up, over the stars …

  THREE

  The sun with its brightness

  In her attic bedroom Meg regarded Ananda, who thumped her massive tail in a friendly manner. “What’s this about?” Meg demanded.

  Ananda merely thudded again, waking the kitten, who gave a halfhearted brrtt and stalked across the pillow.

  Meg looked at her battered alarm clock, which stood in its familiar place on the bookcase. The hands did not seem to have moved. “Whatever’s going on, I don’t understand.”

  Ananda whined softly, an ordinary whine coming from an ordinary dog of questionable antecedents, a mongrel like many in the village.

  “Gaudior,” Meg murmured. “More joyful. That’s a good name for a unicorn. Gaudior, Ananda: that joy without which the universe will fall apart and collapse. Has the world lost its joy? Is that why we’re in such a mess?” She stroked Ananda thoughtfully, then held up the hand which had been pressing against the dog’s flank. It glowed with radiant warmth. “I told Charles Wallace I’m out of practice in kything. Maybe I’ve been settling for the grownup world. How did you know we needed you, Ananda? And when I touch you I can kythe even more deeply than I’ve ever done before.” She put her hand back on the comfortable flank and closed her eyes, shivering with the strain of concentration.

  She saw neither Charles Wallace nor the unicorn. She saw neither the familiar earth with the star-watching rock, the woods, the hills, nor the night sky with its countless galaxies. She saw nothing. Nothing. There was no wind to ride or be blown by.

  Nothing was. She was not. There was no dark. There was no light. No sight nor sound nor touch nor smell nor taste. No sleeping nor waking. No dreaming, no knowing.

  Nothing.

  And then a surge of joy.

  All senses alive and awake and filled with joy.

  Darkness was, and darkness was good. As was light.

  Light and darkness dancing together, born together, born of each other, neither preceding, neither following, both fully being, in joyful rhythm.

  The morning stars sang together and the ancient harmonies were new and it was good. It was very good.

  And then a dazzling star turned its back on the dark, and it swallowed the dark, and in swallowing the dark it became the dark, and there was something wrong with the dark, as there was something wrong with the light. And it was not good. The glory of the harmony was broken by screeching, by hissing, by laughter which held no merriment but was hideous, horrendous cacophony.

  With a strange certainty Meg knew that she was experiencing what Charles Wallace was experiencing. She saw neither Charles Wallace nor the unicorn, but she knew through Charles Wallace’s knowing.

  The breaking of the harmony was pain, was brutal anguish, but the harmony kept rising above the pain, and the joy would pulse with light, and light and dark once more knew each other, and were part of the joy.

  Stars and galaxies rushed by, came closer, closer, until many galaxies were one galaxy, one galaxy was one solar system, one solar system was one planet. There was no telling which planet, for it was still being formed. Steam boiled upward from its molten surface. Nothing could live in this primordial caldron.

  Then came the riders of the wind when all the riders sang the ancient harmonies and the melody was still new, and the gentle breezes cooled the burning. And the boiling, hissing, flaming, steaming, turned to rain, aeons of rain, clouds emptying themselves in continuing torrents of rain which covered the planet with healing darkness, until the clouds were nearly emptied and a dim light came through their veils and touched the water of the ocean so that it gleamed palely, like a great pearl.

  Land emerged from the seas, and on the land green
began to spread. Small green shoots rose to become great trees, ferns taller than the tallest oaks. The air was fresh and smelled of rain and sun, of green of tree and plant, blue of sky.

  The air grew heavy with moisture. The sun burned like brass behind a thick gauze of cloud. Heat shimmered on the horizon. A towering fern was pushed aside by a small greenish head on a long, thick neck, emerging from a massive body. The neck swayed sinuously while the little eyes peered about.

  Clouds covered the sun. The tropical breeze heightened, became a cold wind. The ferns drooped and withered. The dinosaurs struggled to move away from the cold, dying as their lungs collapsed from the radical change in temperature. Ice moved inexorably across the land. A great white bear padded along, snuffling, looking for food.

  Ice and snow and then rain again and at last sunlight breaking through the clouds, and green again, green of grass and trees, blue of sky by day, sparkle of stars by night.

  * * *

  Unicorn and boy were in a gentle, green glade, surrounded by trees.

  “Where are we?” Charles Wallace asked.

  “We’re here,” the unicorn replied impatiently.

  “Here?”

  Gaudior snorted. “Don’t you recognize it?”

  Charles Wallace looked around at the unfamiliar landscape. Tree ferns spread their fronds skyward as though drinking blue. Other trees appeared to be lifting their branches to catch the breeze. The boy turned to Gaudior. “I’ve never been here before.”

  Gaudior shook his head in puzzlement. “But it’s your own Where, even if it’s not your own When.”

  “My own what?”

  “Your own Where. Where you stood and called on all Heaven with its power and I was sent to you.”

  Again Charles Wallace scanned the unfamiliar landscape and shook his head.

  “It’s a very different When,” Gaudior conceded. “You’re not accustomed to moving through time?”

  “I’ve moved through fifteen years’ worth of time.”

  “But only in one direction.”

  “Oh—” Understanding came to the boy. “This isn’t my time, is it? Do you mean that Where we are now is the same place as the star-watching rock and the woods and the house, but it’s a different time?”