A Wrinkle in Time Quintet (57 page)

Meg followed her gaze.
Coming into the kitchen were the kitten and Ananda, single file, the kitten with its tail straight up in the air, mincing along as though leading the big dog, whose massive tail was wagging wildly. They all laughed, and the laughter froze as the two creatures came past the table with the telephone. Twice since the president’s call the phone had rung, first Calvin, then his mother. When would it
ring again, and who would call?

It surprised Meg that the warm bread tasted marvelous, and the tea warmed her, and she was able, at least for the moment, to relax. Ananda whined beseechingly, and Meg gave her a small piece of toast.

Outside came the sound of a car, the slamming of a door, and then Sandy came in with Mrs. O’Keefe. The old woman had cobwebs in her hair, and smudges of dirt on
her face. In her hand she held some scraps of paper.

“Something in me told me to go to the attic,” she announced triumphantly. “That name—Mad Dog Branzillo—it rang a bell in me.”

Meg looked at her mother-in-law and suddenly the kythe flooded back. “Beezie!” She cried.

Mrs. O’Keefe lunged toward her as though to strike her. “What’s that?”

Meg caught the old woman’s hands. “Beezie, Mom. You
used to be called Beezie.”

“How’d you know?” the old woman demanded fiercely. “You couldn’t know! Nobody’s called me Beezie since Chuck.”

Tears filled Meg’s eyes. “Oh, Beezie, Beezie, I’m so sorry.”

The family looked at her in astonishment. Mr. Murry asked, “What is this, Meg?”

Still holding her mother-in-law’s hands, Meg replied, “Mrs. O’Keefe used to be called Beezie when she was a girl.
Didn’t you, Mom?”

“It’s best forgotten,” the old woman said heavily.

“And you called Charles Wallace
Chuck
,” Meg persisted, “and Chuck was your little brother and you loved him very much.”

“I want to sit down,” Mrs. O’Keefe said. “Leave the past be. I want to show you something.” She handed a yellowed envelope to Mr. Murry. “Look at that.”

Mr. Murry pushed his glasses up his nose. “It’s a
letter from a Bran Maddox in Vespugia to a Matthew Maddox right here.”

The twins looked at each other. Sandy said, “We were just talking about Matthew Maddox tonight when we were looking something up for Meg. He was a nineteenth-century novelist. Is there a date on the letter?”

Mr. Murry carefully drew a yellowed sheet of paper from the old envelope. “November 1865.”

“So the Matthew Maddox
could be the one whose book Dennys studied in college!”

“Let Father read the letter,” Dennys stopped his twin.

My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. Is there snow at home? I am settling in well with the group from Wales, and feel that I have known most of them all our lives. What an adventure this is, to start a colony in this arid country where the
children can be taught Welsh in school, and where we can sing together as we work.

The strangest thing of all is that our family legend was here to meet me. Papa and Dr. Llawcae will be wild with excitement. We grew up on the legend of Madoc leaving Wales and coming to the New World, the way other children grew up on George Washington and the cherry tree. Believe it or not—but I know you’ll believe
it, because it’s absolutely true—there is an Indian here with blue eyes who
says he is descended from a Welsh prince who came to America long before any other white men. He does not know how his forebears got to South America, but he swears that his mother sang songs to him about being the blue-eyed descendant of a Welsh prince. He is called Gedder, though that is not his real name. His mother
died when he and his sister were small, and they were brought up by an English sheep rancher who couldn’t pronounce his Welsh name, and called him Gedder. And his sister’s name—that is perhaps the most amazing of all: Zillie. She does not have the blue eyes, but she is quite beautiful, with very fine features, and shining straight black hair, which she wears in a long braid. She reminds me of my
beloved Zillah.

Gedder has been extraordinarily helpful in many ways, though he has a good deal of arrogance and a tendency to want to be the leader which has already caused trouble in this community where no man is expected to set himself above his brothers.

But how wonderful that the old legend should be here to greet me! As for our sister Gwen, she shrugs and says, “What difference does a
silly old story make?” She is determined not to like it here, though she’s obviously pleased when all the young men follow her around.

Has Dr. Llawcae decided to let Zillah come and
join me in the spring? The other women would welcome her, and she would be a touch of home for Gwen. I’m happy here, Matthew, and I know that Zillah would be happy with me, as my wife and life’s companion. Women are
not looked down on here—Gwen has to admit that much. Perhaps you could come, and bring Zillah with you? The community is settled enough so that I think we could take care of you, and this dry climate would be better for you than the dampness at home. Please come, I need you both.

Your affectionate brother,
Bran

Mr. Murry stopped. “It’s very interesting, Mrs. O’Keefe, but why is it so important
for me to see it?”—that you called in the middle of the night, he seemed to be adding silently.

“Don’t you see?”

“No, sorry.”

“Thought you was supposed to be so brilliant.”

Mrs. Murry said, “The letter was mailed from Vespugia. That’s strange enough, that you should have a letter which was mailed from Vespugia.”

“Right,” the old woman said triumphantly.

Mr. Murry asked, “Where did you find
this letter, Mrs. O’Keefe?”

“Told you. In the attic.”

“And your maiden name was Maddox.” Meg smiled at the old woman. “So they were forebears of yours, this Bran Maddox, and his brother, Matthew, and his sister, Gwen.”

She nodded. “Yes, and likely his girlfriend, Zillah, too. Maddoxes and Llawcaes in my family all the way back.”

Dennys looked at his sister’s mother-in-law with new respect.
“Sandy was looking up about Vespugia tonight, and he told us about a Welsh colony in Vespugia in 1865. So one of your ancestors went to join it?”

“Looks like it, don’t it? And that Branzillo, he’s from Vespugia.”

Mr. Murry said, “It’s a remarkable coincidence—” He stopped as his wife glanced at him. “I still don’t see how it can have any connection with Branzillo, or what it would mean if it
did.”

“Don’t you?” Mrs. O’Keefe demanded.

“Please tell us,” Mrs. Murry suggested gently.

“The names. Bran. Zillah. Zillie. Put them together and they aren’t far from Branzillo.”

Mrs. Murry looked at her with surprised admiration. “How amazing!”

Mr. Murry asked, “Are there other letters?”

“Were. Once.”

“Where are they?”

“Gone. Went to look. Began thinking about this
Branzillo when I went
home. Remembered Chuck and me—”

“Chuck and you what, Mom?” Meg probed.

Mrs. O’Keefe pushed her cobwebby hair away from her eyes. “We used to read the letters. Made up stories about Bran and Zillah and all. Played games of Let’s Pretend. Then, when Chuck—didn’t have the heart for Let’s Pretend any more, forgot it all. Made myself forget. But that name, Branzillo, struck me. Bran. Zillah. Peculiar.”

Mr. Murry looked bemusedly at the yellowed paper. “Peculiar, indeed.”

“Where’s your little boy?” Mrs. O’Keefe demanded.

Mr. Murry looked at his watch. “He went for a walk.”

“When?”

“About an hour ago.”

“In the middle of the night, and at his age?”

“He’s fifteen.”

“No. Twelve. Chuck was twelve.”

“Charles Wallace is fifteen, Mrs. O’Keefe.”

“A runt, then.”

“Give him time.”

“And you don’t
take care of him. Chuck needs special care. And people criticize me for not taking care of my kids!”

Dennys, too, looked at his watch. “Want me to go after him, Dad?”

Mr. Murry shook his head. “No. I think we have to
trust Charles Wallace tonight. Mrs. O’Keefe, you’ll stay awhile?”

“Yes. Need to see Chuck.”

Meg said, “Please excuse me, everybody. I want to go back to bed.” She tried to keep
the urgency from her voice. She felt a panicky need to get back to the attic with Ananda. “Chuck
was
twelve,” Mrs. O’Keefe had said. Chuck was twelve when what? Anything that happened to Chuck was happening to Charles Wallace.

Mrs. Murry suggested, “Would you like to take a cup of tea with you?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine. Someone call me when Charles gets in?”

Ananda followed her upstairs, contentedly
licking her lips for the last buttery crumbs.

The attic felt cold and she got quickly into bed and wrapped the quilt around herself and the dog.—Charles Wallace wanted me to find a connection between Wales and Vespugia, and Dennys found one in his reference books. But it’s a much closer connection than that. The letter Mrs. O’Keefe brought was from 1865, and from Vespugia, so the connection is
as close as her attic.

Despite the warm glow of the electric heater, she shivered.

—Those people in the letter must be important, she thought,—and the Bran who wrote the letter, and his sister Gwen. Certainly the name Zillie must have some
connection with Madoc’s Zyll, and Ritchie Llawcae’s Zylle, who was nearly burned for witchcraft.

—And then, the Matthew he wrote to must be the Matthew Maddox
who wrote the books. There’s something in that second book that matters, and the Echthroi don’t want us to know about it. It’s all interconnected, and we still don’t know what the connections mean.

—And what happened to Beezie, that she should end up as Mom O’Keefe? Oh, Ananda, Ananda, whatever happened?

She lay back against the pillows and rubbed her hand slowly back and forth over the dog’s
soft fur, until the tingling warmth moved up her arm and all through her.

“But why Pa?” Beezie demanded over and over again. “Why did Pa have to die?”

“There’s never an answer to that question, my Beezie,” the grandmother replied patiently. “It’s not a question to be asking.”

“But I do ask it!”

The grandmother looked tired, and old. Chuck had never before thought of her as old, as being any
age at all. She was simply Grandma, always there for them. Now she asked, not the children, but the heavens, “And why my Patrick, and him even younger than your father. Why anything?” A tear slid down her cheek, and Beezie and Chuck put their arms around her to comfort her.

Mrs. Maddox went over the ledgers so patiently kept up to date by her husband. The more she looked, the more slowly her
hands turned the pages. “I knew it was bad, but I didn’t know it was this bad. I should have realized when he sold Matthew Maddox’s book …”

Chuck crawled up into the dark storage spaces under the eaves, looking for treasure. He found a bottle full of pennies, but no gold or jewels to give his mother. He found an old
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, the pages yellow, the bindings cracked, but still useful.
He found a set of china wrapped in old newspapers dated long before he and Beezie were born, which he hoped they might be able to sell. He found a strongbox, locked.

He brought his findings to the living room. His mother was in the store, but Beezie and the grandmother were there, doing the week’s baking.

“The pennies are old. They may be worth something. The china’s good. It may pay for our
fuel for a month or so. What’s in the box?”

“There isn’t a key. I’m going to break it.” He took hammer and screwdriver and wrench, and the old lock gave way and he was able to lift the lid. In the box was a sheaf of letters and a large notebook with a crumbling blue leather binding. He opened the book to the first page, and there was a watercolor sketch, faded only slightly, of the spring countryside.

“Grandma! It’s our rock, our picnic rock!”

The old woman clucked. “And so it is.”

The rock was shaded in soft blues and lavenders merging into grey. Behind it the trees were lush with spring green. Above it flew a flock of butterflies, the soft blues of the spring azures complemented by the gold and black of the tiger swallowtails. Around the rock were the familiar spring flowers, dappling the
grass like the background of a tapestry.

Chuck exclaimed in delight, “Oh, Beezie, oh, Grandma!” Reverently he turned the page. In beautiful script was written,
Madrun, 1864, Zillah Llawcae.

The grandmother wiped her floury hands carefully and put on her spectacles, bending over the book. Together they read the first page.

Madrun.

Past ten o’clock. Through my bedroom window I can look down
the hill to the Maddoxes’ house. Mr. and Mrs. Maddox will be asleep. They get up at five in the morning. Gwen Maddox—who knows? Gwen has always considered herself a grownup and me a child, though we’re separated by only two years.

The twins, my dear twins, Bran and Matthew. Are they awake? When Bran lied about his age, so afraid was he he’d miss the war, and went to join the cavalry, I feared
he might be killed in battle. When I
dreamed of his homecoming, as I did each night when I looked at his diamond on my finger and prayed for his safety, I never thought it could be like this, with Bran withdrawn and refusing to communicate with anyone, even his twin. If I try to speak to him about our marriage, he cuts me short, or turns away without a word. Matthew says there have been others
who have suffered this sickness of spirit because of the horrors of war.

I am, and have been for nearly seventeen years, Zillah Llawcae. Will I ever be Zillah Maddox?

They continued to turn the pages, more quickly now, not pausing to read the journal entries, but looking at the delicate paintings of birds and butterflies, flowers and trees, squirrels and wood mice and tree toads, all meticulously
observed and accurately reproduced.

A shiver ran up and down Chuck’s spine. “Pa’s mother was a Llawcae. This Zillah could be one of our ancestors … and she was alive when she painted all this, and it’s just the way it is now, just exactly the same.”