The Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  Bowls of vegetables were spread out, with fragrant breads, wooden and clay dishes of butter and cheese. Half a dozen girls and boys, long of limb and slim of body, nearing puberty, began passing food around. Two young warriors carved the deer, and an old woman, wearing a crown of feathers with an owl’s head, poured some kind of pale liquid into small wooden bowls; she had been one of those in the stone circle.

  Anaral brought bowls to Polly, Zachary, and Bishop Colubra. As he accepted his, Zachary tentatively touched Anaral’s fingers, looking at her with eyes which seemed unusually dark in his pale face. Anaral withdrew her hand and returned to the young raider, holding his head so that he could drink. Polly noticed that on the stone altar there was a great bouquet of autumn flowers, set amidst squash, zucchini, eggplant, all the autumn colors arranged so that each seemed to brighten the others.

  “It’s crazy,” Zachary muttered to Polly. “Here we’re sitting and stuffing our faces as though we’d won some kind of great battle, and those goons who rowed off across the lake could come back any minute and slaughter us all.”

  The bishop replied, “I think Karralys is aware of their intentions, but he also knows that the human creature needs special celebrations. The rites themselves cannot give life. Indeed, they can be hollow and meaningless. The heart of the people is what gives them life or death.”

  “Is this all in honor of some god?” Zachary asked.

  “It is a form of thanks to the Presence.”

  “What presence?”

  The bishop spoke softly. “The Maker of the Universe.”

  “Oh, zug,” Zachary grunted.

  “Not necessarily.” The bishop smiled slightly. “Sacred rites become zug, as you so graphically put it, only when they become ends in themselves, or divisive, or self-aggrandizing.”

  Polly saw a young man with a spear standing at the head of the star-watching rock, looking across the lake. A woman with a bow and arrow stood at the path which led to the standing stones. There were probably others on guard where they were not visible to her. Karralys was not leaving his people unprotected. He moved about, from group to group, greeting, praising, and wherever he went, Og went with him.

  After the young people had cleared the food away, there was singing and dancing, and the moon rose high and clear, casting a path of light across the lake.

  Karralys and Anaral led the dancing, at first moving in a stately and gracious circle, then dancing more and more swiftly.

  “You know, that girl is beautiful,” Zachary remarked. “Things haven’t improved in three thousand years. By the way, I think that Neanderthal is interested in you.”

  “Who?” Polly asked blankly.

  “That tow-headed guy with bow legs and monkey arms.”

  He meant Tav. Perhaps Tav’s legs were not quite straight. Perhaps his strong arms were long. But he was no Neanderthal. Polly prickled with indignation but held her tongue. She was uncomfortable both with Zachary’s obvious fascination with Anaral and with his jealousy of Tav’s interest in her. She kept her voice quiet. “I don’t think it’s a very good idea for either of us to get involved with someone who’s been dead for three thousand years.”

  “They’re not dead tonight,” Zachary said, “and neither are we. And if I can lengthen my life expectancy by staying here, then I’ll stay. Anyhow, didn’t the bishop say the time gate was closed? We’re stuck here, so we might as well make the best of it.”

  Cub approached them, spoke to Zachary. “I would feel your heart. There is, I think, trouble there.”

  Zachary turned toward Polly. She explained. Zachary looked at her with anxious eyes. “Please, tell him to go ahead.”

  Cub slid his hand under Zachary’s shirt, closed his eyes, breathed slowly, slowly.

  “Well?” Zachary asked impatiently.

  Cub raised his hand for silence. He kept his hand on Zachary’s chest for a long time, feeling, listening. Then he raised his eyes to Polly’s. “There is bad damage there. The Ancient Wolf might have been able to repair the hurt. I will do what I can, but it will not be enough.”

  “But the bishop’s heart—”

  “Bishop’s heart is only old, and he is not used to being in the middle of a battle. But this—” Slowly he removed his hand from Zachary’s chest. “This demands skills I do not yet have. But perhaps we should not take hope away from him.”

  “What’s he saying?” Zachary demanded. “I wish he’d slow down.”

  Polly replied carefully, “He says that your heart has damage, as you know, and that it will not be easy to fix.”

  “Can he fix it?”

  “He will do his best.”

  Zachary moaned. Put his face in his hands. When he looked at Polly, his eyes were wet. “I want him to be able to fix—”

  “He will do his best.” Polly tried to sound reassuring, but she was getting impatient.

  Cub said, “Each day I will work on the strangeness I feel within his heart. The rhythms are playing against each other. There is no harmony.”

  “What?” Zachary demanded.

  “He will work with you every day,” Polly said. “He really is a healer, Zachary. He will do everything he can.”

  Cub frowned with worry. “Perhaps if Karralys—” He looked at his hands, flexing the fingers. “Now I must go see to the others who have been hurt.”

  “What do you think?” There was renewed eagerness in Zachary’s voice. “I’d be glad to stay in this place even with no showers or TV or sports cars or all the stuff I thought I was hooked on. I guess I’m more hooked on life.”

  “He’s a healer,” Polly repeated.

  The drums were increasing their rhythms, and the dancers followed the beat. Tav came and took Polly’s hands and drew her into the circle of dancers, and the touch of his strong hands did something to her that Zachary’s did not, and she did not understand her reaction to this strange young man who thought she had been sent by the goddess as a sacrifice to the Mother.

  Dr. Louise’s words about sacrifice flicked across her mind and were wiped away as Tav took her hands and swept her into the circle of the dance.

  When she was panting and almost out of breath, he took her to the edge of the lake, his arm tightly about her. “I cannot let you go.”

  Still caught up in the exhilaration of the dance, she asked, “What?”

  “It is very strange, Poll-ee. The Mother is usually clear in her demands. But now I am confused. The drought across the lake is bad. If they do not get rain, not just a little rain, but much rain for those who have taken our cattle—if there is no rain, they will come again, and they are many, and we are few, and we will not be able to defend ourselves.”

  “But you were marvelous,” Polly exclaimed. “You dashed in single-handed and you fought like—” If she likened him to one of the heroes of King Arthur’s court, it would have no meaning for him. So she just repeated, “You were marvelous. Brave.”

  He shrugged. “I am a warrior. At least I was, at home. There had to be warriors. Here we have been so away from other tribes that only the drought has brought back an understanding that land must be protected. Land, and those we love.” He reached out his hand and gently touched hers, then withdrew.

  Polly sighed. “I wish people could live together in peace. There’s so much land here. Why do they want yours?”

  “Our land is green and beautiful. We have had more rain than across the lake. We use the water of our river to—” As he tried to explain, she understood that the People of the Wind used some form of irrigation which the People Across the Lake did not. Even so, there had not been enough rainfall. If the winter snows did not come, everybody would suffer. “When you came, it seemed clear to me that the goddess had sent you. But now there is not only the old Heron who came before you but this strange young man who is as white of skin as I am white of hair.”

  “Do you pray for rain?” Polly asked.

  Tav laughed. “What else have we been dancing and singing about?”

&nb
sp; Of course, she realized. All ritual for the People of the Wind was religious.

  “To dance and sing is not enough,” Tav continued. “We must give.”

  “Isn’t your love enough?” The question sounded sentimental as she asked it, but as she looked at the moon sparkling off the lake, she understood dimly that the love she was thinking about was not sentimental at all but firm and hard as the star-watching rock.

  Tav shook his head. His voice dropped so low that she could scarcely hear. “I do not know. I do not know anymore what is required.” As his words fell into silence, the soft wind gently stirred the moonlit waters of the lake. He spoke again. “There are many women of the People of the Wind who are beautiful, who would like to please me, to be mine. But none has brought me that gift without which everything else is flat. That gift! Now I look at you and the mountains are higher, and the snow whiter on the peaks, the lake bluer and deeper, the stars more brilliant than I have ever seen them before.”

  Polly tried to put what she wanted to say into Ogam. Tav reached out his hand and smoothed out her frown. “Tav, it is very strange. I don’t understand anything that is happening. When you touch me, I feel—”

  “As I feel?”

  “I don’t know. What I feel has nothing to do with—” She touched her forehead, trying to explain that her reaction had nothing to do with reason. “But”—she looked at his eyes, which were silver in the moonlight—“you still think the Mother wants blood, my blood?”

  Tav moaned. “Oh, my Poll-ee, I do not know.”

  “I don’t think the Mother—” She stopped, unable to think of a word for “demand” or “coerce.”—Nearer our time, she thought,—one name for the goddess was Sophia, Wisdom. A divine mother who looks out for creation with intelligence and purpose.

  She shook her head, realizing that even if she could put what she was thinking into Ogam, it was not within Tav’s frame of reference.

  Tav took both her hands. “We must go back to the others, or they will wonder—”

  She had hardly realized that the singing had changed. No longer were the drums sounding the beat of a dance. The song was similar to the one Polly had heard that first morning when she crossed the threshold to the People of the Wind, but now it was gentler, quieter, almost a lullaby.

  “We sing good night.” His arm about her, Tav returned her to where Bishop Colubra and Zachary were sitting. Anaral was behind them, with the young raider. The singing drifted off as, one by one or in pairs, people went to their tents.

  Karralys came to the bishop, his long white robe pure as snow in the moonlight, the topaz in his torque gleaming. “It will be my honor if you will share my tent. And, Zak—”

  “Zachary.”

  “And you, too, Zachary.”

  Anaral left her tending of the raider and took Polly’s hand. “And you will come with me.”

  Anaral’s tent was a lean-to of young saplings covered with cured skins. It backed against a thick green wall of fir and pine and smelled fresh and fragrant. There were two pallets of ferns covered with soft skins. Anaral handed Polly a rolled-up blanket of delicate fur. Polly took off her red anorak and sat down on one of the fern beds.

  Anaral squatted beside her. “Tav is, well, Poll-ee, you must know he is drawn to you.”

  Polly wrapped the fur blanket around her. “And I to him, and I don’t understand how I could be.”

  Anaral smiled. “Such things are not understood. They happen. Later, if two people are to be together for always, then understanding comes.”

  “Is there going to be a later?” Polly asked. “I know the threshold is not open now, but I—I do need to get home to my own time. Before”—she could hardly bring herself to articulate it—“before I have to be sacrificed to the Mother.”

  “That will not happen,” Anaral protested. “There will be rain.”

  “Across the lake?”

  “Across the lake.”

  Polly said, “If it hadn’t been for Tav this afternoon when the raiders came—”

  “And the others.”

  “But Tav leapt in and fought when he didn’t know if the others were coming. And it was, oh, in a strange way it was exciting.”

  “You were a warrior, too,” Anaral said.

  “I just wasn’t going to let those strange men carry you off.”

  Anaral sighed. “And I am grateful. To Tav. To you. And Karralys.”

  “He tried to stop the fighting,” Polly said. “But when he couldn’t, he fought as well as Tav did.”

  “We People of theWind”—Anaral sighed again—“we have always been what the bishop calls paci—paci—”

  “Pacifists,” Polly supplied.

  Anaral nodded. “It is the drought that has changed things. If it would only rain! The Old Grey Wolf told us that there was drought many years ago and that we—my people—came here to this fertile place because our own grounds were parched, the grasses brown instead of green, the cattle with their bones showing, the corn not even making its tassels. We have been in this place since the Old Wolf was a baby. We cannot just leave and let the People Across the Lake take our home. Where would we go? Beyond the forest there are now other tribes. If only the goddess would send rain!”

  “Do you think the goddess is withholding rain?” Polly asked.

  Anaral shook her head. “It is not in the goddess’s nature to destroy. She sends blessings. It is us, it is people who are destructive.” She left the tent abruptly.

  In a few minutes she returned with a wooden bowl full of water, and a soft piece of leather for a washcloth. She wet the leather and gently washed Polly’s face, and then her hands, and it was as much a ritual as the banquet and the singing and dancing had been. She handed the bowl to Polly, who understood that she in her turn was to wash Anaral. When Anaral took the bowl out to empty it, Polly felt as clean as though she had just taken a long bath. She lay down on the fern bed, wrapped in the soft fur blanket, and slid into sleep.

  When she woke up, she thought at first that she was at home with her grandparents. But there was no Hadron sleeping beside her. She reached out her hand and touched hair, not the fur of the blanket, but living hair, and Og’s moist nose nuzzled into her hand, his warm tongue licked her fingers. She was comforted and lay listening to the night. The quiet was different from the quiet of her own time, where the soughing of the wind in the trees was sometimes broken by the distant roar of a plane going by overhead, by a truck on the road a mile downhill from the house. Here the lake covered the place where the road was, and she could hear small splashings as an occasional fish surfaced. There was also a sense of many presences, that the People of the Wind surrounded her. Her eyes adjusted to the dark and she could see Anaral’s curled-up form on the other pallet, hear her soft breathing.

  Polly sat up carefully. It was cold, so she put on the red anorak and crept out into the first faint light of dawn, Og following her. Stars still shone overhead, but the moon had long since gone to rest, and there was a faint lemon-colored streak of light on the horizon far across the lake. She saw someone sitting on a tree trunk, facing the lake, and she recognized Bishop Colubra by his plaid shirt. Quietly she walked to him.

  “Bishop—”

  He turned and saw her, and invited her with a motion to sit beside him.

  “The time gate—”

  He shook his head. “It is still closed.”

  “Yesterday, when Dr. Louise came over, she said you’d gone off in hiking boots—”

  He looked down at his feet in laced-up leather boots. “I thought I’d better be prepared.”

  “You mean you knew—”

  “No. I didn’t know. I just suspected that something might happen, and if you came to this time and place and couldn’t get back, I wanted to be here with you.”

  “Are we going to be able to get home? To our own time?”

  “Oh, I think it’s highly likely,” the bishop said.

  “But you aren’t sure?”

  “My dea
r, I’m seldom sure of anything. Life at best is a precarious business, and we aren’t told that difficult or painful things won’t happen, just that it matters. It matters not just to us but to the entire universe.”

  Polly thought of the bishop’s wife, of Dr. Louise’s family. She did not know that Karralys was there with them at the lakeside until he said, “Zachary is not in the tent.”

  Karralys stood with his back to the lake, looking down at Polly and Bishop Colubra. “I do not wish to raise an alarm. You have not seen him? He has not spoken to you?”

  “No,” both the bishop and Polly replied.

  “I had hoped he might be with you. Wait here, please. I will check the other tents. If Zachary should come to you, please keep him here till I return.” He turned away from them, walking rapidly. Og looked at Polly, licked her hand, then took off after Karralys.

  “Bishop,” Polly said softly, “Zachary is terrified of dying.”

  “Yes.” The bishop nodded.

  “And he thinks his best hope is here, in this time. So I don’t think he’d go off anywhere. He tries to be so glib about everything, but he’s frightened.”

  The bishop’s voice was compassionate. “Poor young man, with his house slipping and sliding on sand.”

  Polly said, “If it was my heart, and I was told I had only a year or so to live, I’d be afraid, too.”

  “Of course, my dear. The unknown is always frightening, no matter how much we trust in the purposes of love. And I do not think that Zachary has that trust. So the dark must seem very dark to him indeed.”

  “It can seem pretty dark to me, too,” Polly admitted.

  “To all of us. But to you, and to me, there is the blessing of hope. Isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Though I’m not exactly sure what my hope is.”

  “That’s all right. You’ve lived well in your short life.”

  “Not always. I’ve been judgmental and unforgiving.”

  “But on the whole you’ve lived life lovingly and fully. And I suspect that much of Zachary’s life has been an avoidance of life. Now I’m sounding judgmental, aren’t I?”