The Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  “Go on.” The bishop was alert, totally focused on her words.

  “This afternoon by the Grandfather Oak—you know the tree I mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw a young man and a dog. The girl said the man with the dog had seen me, and then something about circles of time, and then she heard a noise and got frightened and ran away. Who do you suppose she was?”

  The bishop looked at Polly without answering, simply staring at her with a strange, almost shocked look on his face.

  “Bishop?”

  “Well, my dear—” He cleared his throat. “Yes. It is indeed strange. Strange indeed.”

  “Should I tell my grandparents?”

  He hesitated. Cleared his throat. “Probably.”

  She nodded. She trusted him. He hadn’t had a cushy job as bishop. Her grandparents had told her that he’d been in the Amazon for years, taught seminary in China, had a price on his head in Peru. When he was with so-called primitive people he listened to them, rather than imposing his own views. He honored others.

  She was so concerned with her own story that she was not aware that what she had told him had upset him.

  “Polly,” he said, “tell me about the young man with the dog.” His voice trembled slightly.

  “He was standing by the Grandfather Oak. He had these intensely blue eyes.”

  “What was the dog like?”

  “Just a big dog with large ears. Not any particular breed. I didn’t see them for more than a few seconds.”

  “And the girl. Can you describe her?”

  “Well—not much more than I just did. Long black braid, and dark eyes. She was beautiful and strange.”

  “Yes,” the bishop said. “Oh, yes.” His voice was soft and troubled.

  Now she saw that something had disturbed him. “Do you know who she is?”

  “Perhaps. How can I be sure?” He paused, then spoke briskly. “Yes, it’s strange, strange indeed. Your grandfather is right to discourage trespassers.” His eyes were suddenly veiled.

  Mr. Murry came in from the pantry, heard the bishop’s last words. “Right, Nase. I’m quite happy to have deer and foxes leaping over the stone walls, but not snoopers. We’ve had to put a horrendously expensive warning system in the lab. Louise is correct, most of Kate’s equipment hasn’t been used in decades. But the computers are another story.” He headed for the wood stove, turned to Polly. “The lab has been broken into twice. Once a useless microscope was taken, and once your grandmother lost a week’s work because someone—probably local kids, rather than anyone who knew anything about her work—played around with the computer.” He opened the small oven of the wood stove and the odor of freshly baked bread filled the kitchen. “Bread is something Kate can’t make on the Bunsen burner, so this is my contribution, as well as therapy. Kneading bread is wonderful for rheumatic fingers.”

  Mrs. Murry and Dr. Louise followed him into the kitchen. Mrs. Murry lit candles in addition to the oil lamps, and turned out the lights. Dr. Louise put a large casserole of Mrs. Murry’s chicken concoction on the table, and Mr. Murry took a bowl of autumn vegetables from the stove, broccoli, cauliflower, sprouts, onions, carrots, leeks. The bishop sniffed appreciatively.

  Mrs. Murry said, “The twins used to have a vast vegetable garden. Ours isn’t nearly as impressive, but Alex does amazingly well.”

  “For an old man, you mean,” Mr. Murry said.

  “Except for your arthritis,” Dr. Louise said, “you’re in remarkably good shape. I wish some of my patients ten or more years younger than you did as well.”

  After they were seated, and the meal blessed and served, Polly looked at the bishop. His eyes met hers briefly. Then he glanced away, and his expression was withdrawn. But she thought he had barely perceptibly nodded at her. She said, “I’ve seen a couple of odd people today.”

  “Who?” her grandfather asked.

  “You’re not talking about Zachary!” Dr. Louise laughed.

  She shook her head and described both the young man with the dog, and the girl. “Zachary thought he was a caretaker, maybe.”

  The bishop choked slightly, got up, and poured himself some water. Recovering himself, he asked, “You say that Zachary saw this young man?”

  “Sure. He was right there. But he didn’t talk to either of us.”

  “I hope he wasn’t a hunter,” Mr. Murry said. “Our land is very visibly posted.”

  “He didn’t have a gun. I’m positive. Is it hunting season here or something?”

  “It’s never hunting season on our land,” her grandfather said. “Did you speak to him? Ask him what he was doing?”

  “I didn’t get a chance. I just saw him looking at me, and when I got to the tree he was gone.”

  “What about the girl?” Mrs. Murry probed.

  Polly looked at the bishop. His eyes were once again veiled, his expression noncommittal. Polly repeated her description of the girl. “I really don’t think they were poachers or vandals or anything bad. They were just mysterious.”

  Her grandfather’s voice was unexpectedly harsh. “I don’t want any more mysteries.”

  The bishop was staring at the Ogam stone sitting on the kitchen dresser, along with assorted mugs, bowls, a gravy boat, a hammer, a roll of stamps.

  Mrs. Murry’s voice was light. “Perhaps they’ll be friends for Polly?”

  “The girl’s about my age, I think,” Polly said. “She had gorgeous soft leather clothes that would cost a fortune in a boutique, and she wore a sort of silver collar with a beautiful stone.”

  Mrs. Murry laughed. “Your mother said you were finally showing some interest in clothes. I’m glad to note evidence of it.”

  Polly was slightly defensive. “There hasn’t been any reason for me to wear anything but jeans.”

  “Silver collar.” The bishop spoke as though to himself. “A torque—” He was busily helping himself to vegetables.

  Mrs. Murry had heard. “A torque?” She turned to Polly. “Nason has a book on early metalwork with beautiful photographs. The early druids may have lived among Stone Age people, but there were metalworkers at least passing through Britain, and the druids were already sophisticated astronomers. They, and the tribal leaders, wore intricately designed torques.”

  “The wheel of fashion keeps coming full circle,” Dr. Louise said. “And how much have we learned since the Stone Age as far as living peaceably is concerned?”

  Mr. Murry regarded his wife. “There’s a picture of a superb silver torque in Nason’s book that I wish I could get for you, Kate. It would eminently suit you.”

  Polly looked at her grandmother’s sensible country clothes and tried to visualize her in a beautiful torque. It was not impossible. She had been told that her grandmother was a beauty, and as she looked at the older woman’s fine bones, the short, well-cut silver hair, the graceful curve of the slender neck, the fine eyes surrounded by lines made from smiles and pain and generous living, she thought that her grandmother was still beautiful, and she was glad that her grandfather’s response was to want to get his wife a torque.

  Mrs. Murry had taken a blueberry pie from the freezer for dessert, and brought it bubbling from the oven. “I didn’t make it,” she explained. “There’s a blueberry festival at the church every summer, and I always buy half a dozen unbaked pies to have on hand.” She cut into it, and purple juice streamed out with summer fragrance. “Polly, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that your Zachary turned up. It must have been hard for you to leave your friends.”

  Polly accepted a slice of pie. “Island kids tend to be isolated. My friends are sort of scattered.”

  “I’ve been lucky to have Louise living only a few miles away. We’ve been friends ever since college.”

  Yes, her grandmother was lucky to have Dr. Louise, Polly thought. She had never had a real female friend her own age. She thought fleetingly of the girl at the pool.

  Polly and the bishop did the dishes together, and the others we
nt to sit by the fire in the living room, urged on by Mrs. Murry, who said they all spent too much time in the kitchen.

  “So, island girl,” the bishop said, “is all well here?”

  “Very well, thank you, Bishop.” She wanted to ask him more about the man with the dog and the girl at the pool, but it was clear to her that the bishop was guiding the conversation away from them. She took a rinsed plate from him and put it in the dishwasher.

  “My sister has taught me to wash everything with soap, even if it’s going in the dishwasher. Be careful. The plates are slippery.”

  “Okay.”

  “Your young man—”

  “Zachary. Zachary Gray.”

  “He didn’t look well.”

  “He’s always pale. Last summer in Greece when everybody was tan, Zachary’s skin was white. Of course, I don’t think he goes out in the sun much. He isn’t the athletic type.”

  “How was last summer?” The bishop wrung out a sponge.

  Polly was putting silverware in the dishwasher basket. “It was a wonderful experience. I loved Athens, and the conference on Cyprus was worth a year at school. Max—Maximiliana Horne—arranged it all. And she died just before I got home.”

  He nodded. “Your grandparents told me. You’re still grieving.”

  She dried the knives, which were old silver ones with the handles glued on and could not be put in the dishwasher. “It was harder at home, where everything reminded me of Max. Did you know her?”

  The bishop let soapy water out of the sink. “Your Uncle Sandy told me about her. They were great friends.”

  “Yes. Sandy introduced me to her.” Unexpectedly her throat tightened.

  The bishop led the way to one of the shabby chairs by the kitchen fireplace, rather than joining the others in the living room. Polly followed him, and as she sat down Hadron appeared and jumped into her lap, purring.

  “Bishop, about the young man and the girl—”

  But at that moment Dr. Louise came into the kitchen, yawning. “Dishes all done?”

  “And with soap,” the bishop assured her.

  “Time for us to be getting on home.”

  Polly and her grandparents went outside to wave the Colubras off, and the stars were brilliant amid small wisps of cloud. The moon was tangled in the branches of a large Norway maple.

  The bishop climbed into the driver’s seat of the blue pickup truck and they took off with a squeal of tires.

  Polly’s grandmother turned to go back into the house. “We’re going for a quick swim. I’ll come and say good night in a while.” It had already become a comfortable habit that after Polly was in bed her grandmother would come in and they would talk for a few minutes.

  She took a hurried bath—the bathroom was frigid—and slipped into a flannel nightgown, then into bed, pulling the quilt about her. She read a few pages of the book her grandfather had given her on white holes, cosmic gushers, the opposite of black holes. Her grandparents were certainly seeing to her education. But perhaps it was no wonder that her grandfather had not noticed stones in his walls that had strange markings.

  When her grandmother came in, she put the book down on the nightstand, and Mrs. Murry sat on the side of the bed. “Lovely evening. It’s good that Nase is living with Louise. Your grandfather and I feel as though we’ve known him forever. He was a fine bishop. He’s tender and compassionate and he knows how to listen.”

  Polly pushed up higher against the pillows. “Yes, I feel I could tell him anything and he wouldn’t be shocked.”

  “And he’d never betray a confidence.”

  “Grand.” Polly sat up straight. “Something’s been bothering me.”

  “What, my dear?”

  “I sort of just got dumped on you, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, Polly, your grandfather and I have enough sense of self-protection so that if we hadn’t wanted you to come we’d have said no. We’ve felt very deprived, seeing so little of our grandchildren. We love having you. It’s a very different life from what you’ve been used to—”

  “Oh, Grand, I love it. I’m happy here. Grand, why did Mother have so many kids?”

  “Would you want any of you not to have been born?”

  “No, but—”

  “But it doesn’t answer your question.” Mrs. Murry pushed her fingers through her still damp hair. “If a woman is free to choose a career, she’s also free to choose the care of a family as her primary vocation.”

  “Was it that with Mother?”

  “Partly.” Her grandmother sighed. “But it was probably partly because of me.”

  “You? Why?”

  “I’m a scientist, Polly, and well known in my field.”

  “Well, but Mother—” She stopped. “You mean maybe she didn’t want to compete with you?”

  “That could be part of it.”

  “You mean, she was afraid she couldn’t compete?”

  “Your mother’s estimation of herself has always been low. Your father has been wonderful for her and so, in many ways, have you children. But…” Her voice drifted off.

  “But you did your work and had kids.”

  “Not seven of them.” Her grandmother’s hands were tightly clasped together. Then, deliberately, she relaxed them, placed them over her knees.

  Polly slid down in the bed to a more comfortable position. Suddenly she felt drowsy. Hadron, who had taken to sleeping with Polly, curled in the curve between shoulder and neck, began to purr.

  “Women have come a long way,” her grandmother said, “but there will always be problems—and glories—that are unique to women.” The cat’s purr rose contentedly. “Hadron certainly seems to have taken to you.”

  “A hadron,” Polly murmured sleepily, “belongs to a class of particles that interact strongly. Nucleons are hadrons, and so are pions and strange particles.”

  “Good girl,” Mrs. Murry said. “You’re a quick learner.”

  “Strange particles…” Polly’s eyes closed.—You’d think human beings would be full of strange particles. Maybe we are. Hadrons are—I think—formed of quarks, so the degree of strangeness in a hadron is calculated by the number of quarks.

  “Were druids strange?” She was more than half asleep. “I don’t know much about druids.” Polly’s breathing slowed as she pushed her face into the pillow, close to Hadron’s warm fur. Mrs. Murry rose, stood for a moment looking at her granddaughter, then slipped out of the room.

  In the morning Polly woke early, dressed, and went downstairs. No one was stirring. The ground was white with mist which drifted across the lawn. The mountains were slowly emerging on the horizon, and above them the sky shimmered between the soft grey of dawn and the blue which would clarify as the sun rose.

  She headed outdoors, across the field, which was as wet with dew as though it had rained during the night. At the stone wall she paused, but it was probably too early for Louise the Larger. Polly continued along the path toward the star-watching rock. She had pulled on the old red anorak, and she wore lined jeans, so she was warm enough. She looked up at the sky in surprise as there was a sudden strange shimmering in the air. Then there was a flash as though from lightning, but no thunder. The ground quivered slightly under her feet, then settled. Was it an earthquake? She looked around. The trees were different. Larger. There were many more oaks, towering even higher than the Grandfather Oak. As she neared the star-watching rock she saw light flashing on water, and where the fertile valley had been there was now a large lake.

  A lake? She reeled in surprise. Where had a lake come from? And the hills were no longer the gentle hills worn down by wind and rain and erosion, but jagged mountains, their peaks capped with snow. She turned, her flesh prickling, and looked at the rock, and it was the same star-watching rock she had always loved, and yet it was not the same.

  “What’s going on?” she asked aloud. Wreaths of mist were dissipating to reveal a dozen or more tents made of stretched and cured animal skins. Beyond them was an enormous
vegetable garden, and a field of corn, the stalks recently cut and gathered into bunches. Beyond the cornfield, cows and sheep were grazing. On lines strung between poles, fish were hanging. Between stronger poles, beaver skins were being dried and stretched. In front of one of the tents a woman was sitting, pounding something with mortar and pestle. She had black hair worn in a braid, and she was singing as she worked, paying no attention to Polly or anything going on around her, absorbed in the rhythm of the pestle and her song. She looked like a much older version of the girl who had come to the pool.

  In the distance Polly heard the sound of a drum, and then singing, a beautiful melody with rich native harmony. The rising sun seemed to be pulled up out of the sky by the beauty of the song. When the music ended, there was a brief silence, and then the noises of the day resumed.

  What on earth was happening? Where was she? How could she get home?

  She turned in the direction where the Murry house should have been, and coming toward her was a group of young men carrying spears. Instinctively, Polly ran behind one of the great oak trees and peered out from behind the wide trunk.

  Two of the men had a young deer slung onto their spears. They continued past her, beyond the tents and the garden and the cornfield and pasture. They wore soft leather leggings and tunics, similar to the clothes worn by the girl who had come to Polly at the pool.

  After they were out of sight on the path she leaned against the tree because her legs felt like water. What was happening? Where had the huge forest behind her come from? What about the lake which took up the entire valley? Who were the young men?

  Her mind was racing, reaching out in every direction, trying to make some kind of sense out of this total dislocation. Certainly life had proven to her more than once that the world is not a reasonable place, but this was unreason beyond unreason.

  Up the path came a young man with hair bleached almost white. He carried a spear, far larger than those of the hunters. At the haft it was balanced by what looked like a copper ball about the size of an apple or an orange, and just below this was a circle of feathers. She hid behind the tree so that he would not see her, dressed in jeans and a red anorak.