The Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

  “Know what?”

  “About this place? About—” She swallowed painfully. “About my blood giving the healer more power.”

  “Zak knows. Zak wants.”

  “Suppose,” Polly said, “I am not here tomorrow? Suppose the angel takes me away?”

  Tynak glanced at the two guards standing uneasily at the outside of the circle. “No. Angel not take you away.”

  “And if it rains before tomorrow?”

  Tynak clapped his hands. “Good. More power.”

  “And the healer will help Zachary?”

  Tynak shrugged. “If healer has enough power, will help.”

  Og’s growl was low and deep and menacing.

  “Stop,” Tynak said.

  She pressed her hand against Og’s head. Tynak would not hesitate to kill Og. If it would make it easier for himself, or for whomever he would order to capture Polly, to drag her to this clearing with the terrible stone, to add her blood to the blood that had been shed there through the years—yes, Tynak would kill Og if he thought that would lessen her power. Og, if he was not killed first, would not let Polly be taken without a fight. But Og could not hold out against an entire tribe. She looked at Tynak and decided that the only reason he had not already killed the dog was a superstitious fear that Polly’s and the angel’s powers would wreak vengeance.

  What was there to do? Her heart was thumping painfully, heavy as a stone. Was that how Zachary’s heart felt all the time?

  Tynak turned away from the dreadful rock and led her back to the lean-to. The two guards drew near again. One had a bow and arrow, the other a spear. She might be a goddess. She was also a prisoner.

  After Tynak left, she walked out of the lean-to, passing between the guards, and they followed her, silently, as she went to the lake. “Go, Og!” she cried, and the dog ran into the lake and swam rapidly. She swung round on the two young men, stopping the one who was fitting an arrow to his bow. “No!” she ordered.

  The two men looked at each other, not knowing what to do. When one hefted his spear, she hit his arm sharply. She was sure that they had been told not to hurt her. Her blood was too valuable to be spilled other than ritually. She watched until Og was barely visible, certainly out of range of arrow or spear, swimming strongly away from them. Then she went back to the lean-to, and the young man with the bow and arrows hurried away, no doubt to report to Tynak.

  She had sent Og off and that was all she could do.

  She sat on the pallet. Did Zachary know what he was doing? Had Tynak somehow promised him that the healer could cure him if he had just a little more power and Polly’s blood would give him that power? She did not know him well enough to guess whether or not in his extremity he would willingly, knowingly let her be killed in the hope that his heart could be mended.

  She thought of the healer holding his hands over Zachary with the delicacy of a butterfly, of her own experience of the healer holding his hands over hers, as warmth flowed through them. There had been incredible power and beauty in the old man’s hands. Could he be a healer and yet with his healing hands take her blood to enhance his power? Could benign power and malign power work together? Mana power and taboo power were each an aspect of power itself.

  Well, she, Polly, meant nothing to the healer. He operated from a completely different view of the universe from hers. And she could not superimpose her mores on him.

  There were skulls in Tynak’s tent.

  She was three thousand years from home.

  She tried to breathe slowly, calmly. Tried to pray. Bishop Colubra had made it quite clear that although Jesus of Nazareth was not to be born for another thousand years, Christ always was. She turned to the words of a hymn that had long been a favorite of the O’Keefe family:

  Christ be with me,

  Christ within me,

  Christ behind me,

  Christ before me,

  Christ beside me,

  Christ to win me,

  Christ to comfort

  and restore me.

  She lay back on the pallet, her hands behind her head, looking up at the leather roof of the lean-to. In the bright sunlight, patterns of oak branches moved across it in gentle rhythm. Hsh. Breathe softly, Polly. Do not panic. The sap moving like blood in the veins of the oak followed the rhythm of the words.

  Christ beneath me,

  Christ above me,

  Christ in quiet,

  Christ in danger,

  Christ in hearts of

  all that love me,

  Christ in mouth of

  friend and stranger.

  Would Bishop Colubra call it a rune? A rune used for succor, for help, and she was calling on Christ for help.

  Danger. She knew that she was in danger. From all sides. The healer needed more power for Zachary’s heart. Tynak needed power for rain.

  Christ in hearts of all that love me.

  Right now she was more aware of her grandparents, of the bishop and Dr. Louise, than she was of her parents and brothers and sisters, who knew nothing of what was going on. The bishop, Karralys, Annie, Cub, Tav. They were across the lake, waiting. They loved her. They held her in their hearts. What would they think when Og came? They would know that she had sent him. What would they do?

  Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

  Karralys and Anaral were no longer strangers. They were friends. Cub was like a little brother. Tav. She was in Tav’s heart. Klep had talked of the lines between himself and Anaral, between Tav and Polly. Love.

  Stranger.

  Tynak was still a stranger. There was no line between Polly and Tynak. But there was between Polly and the healer. Surely the loving power of Christ had been in those delicate hands as they explored Zachary’s pulse, breath, heartbeat.

  And was there a line between Polly and Zachary? Did one choose where the lines were going to go? If Zachary was truly willing to attempt to save his own life by urging that Polly be sacrificed, what happened to the line? Where was Christ?

  She was sure that the bishop would say that there was no place where Christ could not be.

  Where was Christ in her own heart? She felt nothing but rebellion, and rejection of the clearing in the woods with the terrible stone.

  She thought of Dr. Louise’s words about a blood transfusion. If she could save one of her brothers or sisters by offering all of her blood, would she do it? She did not know. A thousand years away, that blood had been freely given. That was enough. She did not have to understand.

  A light breeze, warm, not cold, slipped under the lean-to and touched her cheeks. Little waves lapped quietly against the shore. The oak tree spread its powerful branches above her. Beneath the ground where she lay, the tree’s roots were spread from the trunk in all directions. Lines of power. Tree roots reaching down to the center of the earth, to the deep fires that kept the heart of the planet alive. The branches reached toward the lake, pointed across the lake to where people who loved her were waiting. The highest branches stretched up to the stars, completing the pattern of lines of love.

  The breeze moved in the oak tree. A leaf drifted down to the roof of the lean-to and she could see its shadow. She listened, and a calm strength slowly began to move through her.

  Her peace was broken by the two guards summoning her. The one with the spear banged it on the ground. The one with the bow and arrow reached down to pull her up. She shook him off and stood, putting her anorak on over the sheepskin tunic, though the day was warm. The two men looked in awe as she pulled up the zipper. Here was a showing of power she hadn’t even thought about. She reached her hand into the pocket to make sure the icon was there.

  If she knew their names, they would have less power over her. “I am Polly.” Not goddess: Polly. “You are?” She looked questioningly at the man with the bow and arrow. “Polly. You?”

  “Winter Frost,” he said reluctantly.

  “And you?” She looked at the man with the spear. “Polly. You?”

  “Dark Swallow.�
��

  “Thank you, Winter Frost, Dark Swallow. You have beautiful names.” Even if they did not understand her words, she could convey something with her voice.

  Dark Swallow led the way. Polly followed behind him, wishing that Og were trotting along beside her, at the same time that she was visualizing Og swimming ashore, letting the People of the Wind know that she was in trouble. But what could they do? They were a small tribe, less than half the size of the People Across the Lake.

  Her steps lagged and Winter Frost prodded her with his bow.

  They were taking her to the clearing in the forest, the clearing where the surrounding trees had lost all their leaves, where the great bloodied rock waited. But it was daylight, full daylight. They would do nothing until night and moonrise. Even so, she hung back, and Winter Frost prodded her again.

  Tynak and the healer were there. Tynak nodded at the guards, who retreated well out of the open circle, waiting. Tynak and the healer both spoke at once, then Tynak, then the healer, a scrambling of staccato words which Polly found it impossible to understand.

  “Slow,” she urged them. “Please speak more slowly.”

  They tried, but still she caught only words and phrases. They kept repeating until she understood that they were asking her if she, a goddess, was immortal. If she was placed on the sacrificial rock, and if her blood was taken so that the healer’s power was augmented, would she be dead, really dead, or would she, as a goddess, rise up?

  She held out her hands, palms up. “I am mortal, like you. When I die, I am dead, like anybody else.” Did he understand? They looked at her, frowning, so she tried again. “This body—it is mortal. If you take my blood from me, this body will die.”

  The healer took her hands in his, which trembled slightly. When he had held them over Zachary, they had moved like a butterfly, but they had not trembled. He looked carefully at the palms of her hands, then the back, then the palms again.

  “Do you really believe,” she asked, “that my blood will give you enough strength so that you can cure Zachary’s heart? You are a healer. Do you really believe that you need my blood?”

  There was no way he could understand her, but she asked anyhow. He shook his head and his eyes were sad.

  Suddenly she had an idea. She took Anaral’s little gold knife out of her anorak pocket and opened it. Quickly she made a small cut in her forearm, held it out to the healer so that he could see the blood which welled out of the cut. “Will that do?”

  With one finger he touched a drop of blood, held his finger to his nose, to his mouth.

  “Not enough!” Tynak shouted. “Not enough!”

  Polly continued to hold her arm out, but the healer shook his head. She remembered that Anaral had given her a Band-Aid as well as the little knife. She felt for it in her pockets, opened it, and put it over the small cut. Both the healer andTynak stared, wide-eyed, at the Band-Aid.

  But the Band-Aid was not particularly impressive power. If they cut her throat—was that how they did it? or would they go for her heart itself?—there was no Band-Aid powerful enough to stanch the blood, stop it from draining her life away.

  She said, “I want to speak to Zachary.”

  “Zak wants not,” Tynak said. “Not to talk with you.”

  She spoke with all the hauteur she could summon. “It makes no difference whether Zachary wants to talk to me or not. I wish to talk with him.” She turned away from the two men to the path which led away from the clearing.

  There were the two guards barring her way.

  She turned imperiously. “Tynak.”

  Tynak looked at the healer.

  The healer nodded. “Take to Zak.”

  Zachary was sitting in the shadows within Tynak’s tent. The flap was open, and light hit the whiteness of skulls on poles, emphasized the whiteness of Zachary’s face.

  “I told you not to bring her here,” he said to Tynak.

  Tynak and the healer simply squatted at the entrance to the tent. Polly stood in front of Zachary.

  “Go away.” He looked down at the packed earth.

  “Zachary. Why don’t you want to see me?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Tonight is full moon.”

  “So?”

  “Zachary. I need to know. Do you want them to put me on the rock and sacrifice me so that the healer can get the power of my blood?”

  “Of course I don’t want that! But they won’t do it. You’re a goddess.”

  “Zach, you must know they’re planning to sacrifice me for my blood.”

  He shrugged. Looked away.

  “Look at me.”

  He shook his head.

  “How do you feel about this?”

  He raised dark, terrified eyes. “I don’t go in for all that guilt stuff.”

  “But you’ll let them take my blood?”

  “How can I stop them?”

  “You really think my blood will give the healer power to help your heart?”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s for rain.”

  “But you think the healer will use the power to make you well?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Zachary, you’re willing to let me die?”

  He shouted, “Shut up! I don’t have anything to do with it! Go away!”

  She turned away from him so abruptly that she faced one of the skulls, almost bumping into it. There had once been flesh on those white bones, eyes in the sockets, lips to smile. But whoever had once fleshed the skull was three thousand years gone, as was Tynak, as was the healer.

  If Zachary stayed there at her expense, if she died, and if Zachary lived, he, too, was three thousand years gone.

  It did not ease the pain of knowing that he was willing to let her be sacrificed.

  Chapter Twelve

  The sun burned like a bronze shield. A strange heat reflected from its fires, touching the water with a phosphorescence. It was hotter than it had been when she swam across the lake. The guards kept glancing in her direction. Now that Og had escaped, the guards would be even more careful with Polly.

  This was the Indian summer she had been told about, Indian summer that came in November with a last reminder of summer before the long cold of winter. But this was hotter than she had expected Indian summer to be. Hotter than it should be? Perhaps weather patterns were different three thousand years ago. Across the lake, lightning played, and thunder was always in the background, an accompaniment to the steady beating of the drums, Tynak’s people drumming for rain, the sound intensified hour by hour. For rain, or for sacrifice?

  The pallet of ferns was soggy with heat and humidity. She pulled it to the entrance of the lean-to, hoping for a breath of air. Lay back with her eyes closed. A warm breeze touched her gently. In her mind’s eye she saw her room which had once been Charles Wallace’s room. Looked out the window to the view of field and woods and the low, ancient hills that gave her a sense of assurance that the jagged mountains did not. She moved her imaging to her grandmother’s lab, where she was always cold; tried to feel her feet on the great stone slabs that formed the floor, chilling her toes. Then in her mind’s eye she looked out the kitchen window to see her grandfather on his tractor. Saw Bishop Colubra at the stone wall, Louise the Larger coiled up in the warm sunlight. Saw Dr. Louise in her daffodil-colored sweater walking across the field toward her brother.

  In this manner she moved through three thousand years. In eternity, her own time and this time in which she was now held, waiting, were simultaneous. If she died in this strange time, would she be born in her own time? Did the fact that she had been born mean that she might escape death here? No, that didn’t work out. Everybody in this time died sooner or later. But if she was to be born in her own time, wouldn’t she have to live long enough to have children, so that she would at least be a descendant of herself? Karralys understood riddles such as this one. Polly shook her head to try to clear it.

  Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared. What did Ei
nstein’s equation really mean? Did her grandfather understand it? Her grandfather, at home in her own time—her grandmother, Dr. Louise, they must all be frantic with anxiety. Dr. Louise would not know what had happened to her brother, who had gone off in hiking shoes.

  And on this side of time, across the lake, the bishop, Karralys, Tav, Cub, Anaral, what were they doing? If Og had reached them, they would be asking each other how they could help; they would be trying to make plans.

  Leaves drifted down onto the skins of the lean-to. The air was so heavy with humidity that she felt she could reach out and squeeze it.

  She looked up as she heard a strange, dragging sound, and coming toward her was Klep, supported on one side by the old healer, on the other by a young warrior; Klep, hopping on his good leg.

  “Klep!” she cried out. “You’ll hurt your leg!”

  The healer and the warrior gently placed him down next to Polly. His face was ashen, and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “Klep! What have you done? You shouldn’t have come!” Polly knelt by him.

  “I have spoken with Tynak,” Klep whispered.

  The healer gestured at the warriors, who glanced wonderingly at Klep, then drew back several paces. Then the healer knelt on Klep’s other side and examined the broken leg, lifting the compress of mosses on the wound where the skin was cleanly healing but was still pink and new-looking. He held his hands over it, shaking his head and mumbling. “There is fever again. He should not be upset,” Polly understood him to say. “In his tent he did fret, fret…” He held his hands over the leg, glanced at Polly, nodded. She held her hands out, too, just over his. The healer withdrew his right hand to place it over Polly’s, not touching, hovering delicately. Again she felt the tingling warmth, and then a strange heat, as though they were drawing the fever out of Klep’s inflamed skin. Then the heat was gone and there was a sense of color, of gold, gold of sky in early morning, gold of butterfly wings, gold of finch in flight.