A Wrinkle in Time Quintet (99 page)

“Is Tav a druid?”

“Oh, no. He is a warrior. He is our greatest hunter. We have not had to worry about having enough meat since Tav came.”

Polly frowned, trying to sort things out. “You were born here, in this place?”

“Yes.”

“But you’re a druid?”

Anaral laughed. “Now. That is what I am called now. For this I was born. And Karralys has trained me in his wisdom. And now there is
danger to our people, and Karralys thinks you have been brought across the threshold to help us.”

“But how could I possibly—” Polly started.

There was a sharp sound, as of someone stepping on and breaking a twig, and Anaral was off, swift as a deer.

Polly looked around, but saw no one. “You have been brought across the threshold to help us,” Anaral had said. What on earth did she mean? And
how was Polly to get back across the threshold to her own time? Without Anaral, how could she possibly get home?

She ran after the other girl. Polly had long legs and she ran quickly, but she was not familiar with the path, which zigzagged back and forth, always downhill. Anaral was nowhere to be seen.

Polly continued on, past the village, around the garden and the cornfield, across the pasture,
and then picked up a path which led through a grove of birch and beech trees. She followed it until it opened out at a large flat stone, not quite as large as the star-watching rock. But in this terrain which had been covered by glaciers the topsoil was thin, the bones of the earth close to the surface. She continued on, listening, as she heard water plashing. Then she was standing on a stone
bridge under which a small brook ran. She had been here before during her exploring, and it was a lovely place. Trees leaned over the water, dropping golden leaves. She was surrounded by rich October smells, decomposing apples, leaves, hickory nuts, acorns, pinecones, all sending their nourishment into the earth.

And suddenly she realized that the trees were the trees of her own time, not those
of a primeval forest. She was home.

In her own time. Weak with relief, Polly sat on the stone bridge, dangling her legs over the brook, trying to return to normalcy.

—Why do northern trees shed their leaves? she asked herself.—Is it to reduce their exposure to extreme cold?

That sounded sensible, and she wanted things to be sensible, because nothing about the morning had been sensible, and inside her warm anorak
she felt cold. She got up and continued along the path, looking for the slim girl with a heavy dark braid. But Anaral had been in that other time, not the now of Polly’s present. Nevertheless, she pushed along the path cut through low bushes, and on to a high precipice, from which she could look over the swampy valley to the hills beyond.

Her uncles, Sandy and Dennys, had cut paths through the
brush when they were young, and the wildlife had more or less kept them open. She would need to come out with clippers to cut back some of the overgrowth. She stood on the high rock, looking westward. The landscape rippled with gentle color, muted golds now predominating, green of pine suddenly appearing where fallen leaves had left bare branches.

Then, below her, down where the bed of the brook
should be, she saw a flash of brightness, and Bishop Colubra appeared out of the bushes, wearing a yellow cap and jacket and carrying a heavy-looking stone. A steep path led down the precipice which would have been easy to follow had it not been crisscrossed by bittersweet and blackberry brambles that caught at her as she plunged downhill toward the bishop, scratching her legs and hands, catching
in her clothes.

The bishop was hailing her with pleasure, holding out the stone, and explaining that he hadn’t been looking for Ogam stones but there was one, right there in an old stone wall, and wasn’t it a glorious morning?

“Bishop!” she gasped as she came up to him. “I’ve been back!”

He stopped so abruptly and completely that the air seemed to quiver. “What?”

“I crossed the threshold,
or whatever Anaral calls it. I went back to her time.”

His voice was a whisper. He looked as though he were about to drop the stone. “When?”

“Just now. I’ve just come out of it. Bishop, while it was happening it was all so sudden and so strange I didn’t have time to feel anything much. But now I think I’m terrified.” Her voice quavered.

He put the stone down, touched her arm reassuringly. “Don’t
be terrified. It will be all right. It will work out according to God’s purpose.”

“Will it?”

“I didn’t expect this. That you—You saw her yesterday, at the pool?”

Polly felt cold, though the sun was warm. “She says that she and Karralys—he’s the one by the oak—she says that they can cross the thresholds of time because they’re druids.”

“Yes.” The bishop kept his hand on Polly’s shoulder, as
though imparting strength. “We’ve lost many gifts that were once available.” He bent down to pick up the stone. “We’d better head back to your grandparents’ house. This is the shortest way, if you want to follow me.” He was definitely wobbly on his long, thin legs, trying to tuck the stone under one arm so that he could balance himself with the other, reaching for small trees or large vines to help
pull himself along. They came to another curve of the brook and he stopped, looked at the water flowing between and around rocks, and made a successful leap across, dropping the stone, which Polly retrieved.

“I’ll carry it for a while,” she offered. She followed the old bishop, who scurried along a nearly overgrown path, then turned sharply uphill, scrabbling his way up like a crab. At their
feet were occasional patches of red partridge berries. A spruce branch stretched across their path, and he held it aside for Polly, continuing along his irregular course until he pushed through a thicket of shadblow and wild cherry, and they emerged at the star-watching rock.

“Bishop,” Polly said. “This—what happened—it’s crazy.”

He did not speak. The sun rose higher. A soft wind moved through
the trees, shaking down more leaves.

“Maybe I dreamed it?”

“Sometimes I don’t know what is dream and what is reality. The line between them is very fine.” He took the Ogam stone from her and set it down on the star-watching rock. Folded his legs and sat down, indicated that she was to sit beside him. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“I got up early and went for a walk, and as I came near the
star-watching rock, everything changed. The ground quivered. I thought it was an earthquake. And then I saw that the trees, the mountains—the trees were much bigger, sort of primeval forest. And the mountains were huge and jagged and snow-topped.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“And I know you’ve been there—back—”

“Yes.”

“Is it real?”

He nodded.

“Do my grandparents know about this? Dr. Louise?”

He shook
his head. “They don’t believe in such things.”

“They believe in the Ogam stones.”

“Yes. They’re tangible.”

“But haven’t you told them?”

He sighed. “My dear, they don’t want to hear.”

“But, Bishop, you took Anaral to Dr. Louise when she cut her finger.”

“How do you—”

“Anaral told me.”

“Yes. Oh, my dear. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t stop to think. I just took her and ran, and thank
heavens Louise was in her office.”

“So she does know.”

He shook his head. “No. I told her, and she thought I was joking. Or out of my mind. I’ve tended periodically to bring in waifs and strays for her to mend, and she thinks Annie was just another. Because that’s what she wants to think. Have you had breakfast?”

“No.”

“Let’s go on back to your grandparents’ and have some coffee. I need to
think. Thursday is All Hallows’ Eve…”

Halloween. She had completely forgotten.

He scrambled to his feet. Picked up the Ogam stone. “That may partly explain—the time of year—”

“Bishop, my grandparents don’t know you’ve done what I did—gone back three thousand years?”

“Do you realize how extraordinary it sounds? They’ve never seen Karralys or Anaral. But you’ve seen them. You’ve crossed the
threshold. If you hadn’t, would you believe it?”

He was right. The whole thing did sound crazy. Time thresholds. Three thousand years. Circles of time. But it had happened. She didn’t see how she and the bishop could have dreamed the same dream. “Bishop—how long have you been going—going back and forth? Between then and now?”

“Since last spring. A few months after I came to live with Louise.”

“How often?”—Often enough to teach Anaral to speak English, she thought.

“Reasonably often. But I can’t plan it. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes it doesn’t. Polly, child, let’s go. I really feel the need to confess to your grandparents, whether they believe me or not.”

“They’re pretty good at believing,” Polly said. “More than most people.”

The bishop shifted the stone from one arm to the
other. “I never thought you’d become involved. I never dreamed this could happen. That you should—I feel dreadfully responsible—”

She offered, “Shall I carry the Ogam stone?”

“Please.” He sounded terribly distraught.

She took the stone and followed him. When they crossed the wall that led to the field, Polly saw Louise the Larger watching them, not moving. The bishop, not even noticing the
snake, scrambled across the wall and started to run toward the house.

Polly’s grandparents were in the kitchen. Everything was reassuringly normal. Her grandfather was reading the paper. Her grandmother was making pancakes. Breakfast was usually catch-as-catch-can. Mrs. Murry often took coffee and a muffin to the lab. Mr. Murry hurried outdoors, working about the yard while the weather held.

“Good morning, Polly, Nason.” Mrs. Murry sounded unsurprised as they panted in, Polly scratched and disheveled from her plunge down the precipice. “Alex requested pancakes, and since he’s a very undemanding person, I was happy to oblige. Join us. I’ve made more than enough batter.”

“I hope I’m not intruding.” The bishop seated himself.

Polly tried to keep her voice normal. “Here’s another Ogam
stone. Where shall I put it?”

“If there’s room, put it beside the one Nase brought in last night,” her grandmother said. “How many pancakes can you eat, Nase?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I can eat anything. I don’t think I’m hungry.”

“Nason! What’s wrong? Don’t you feel well?”

“I’m fine.” He looked at Polly. “Oh, dear. What have I done?”

“What have you done?” Mr. Murry asked.

Polly said,
“You didn’t do anything, Bishop. It just happened.”

Mrs. Murry put a stack of pancakes in front of him, and absently he lavished butter, poured a river of syrup, ate a large bite, put down his fork. “I may have done something terrible.”

“Nason, what’s going on?” Mr. Murry asked.

The bishop took another large bite. Shook his head. “I didn’t think it would happen. I didn’t think it could.”

“What?”
Mr. Murry demanded.

“I thought the time gate was open only to me. I didn’t think—” He broke off.

“Polly,” her grandfather asked, “do you know what all this is about?”

Polly poured herself a mug of coffee and sat down. “The man by the oak, the one both Zachary and I saw, lived at the time of the Ogam stones.” She did her best to keep her voice level. “This morning when I went off for
a walk, I—well, I don’t know what it’s all about, but somehow or other I went through the bishop’s time gate.”

“Nase!”

The bishop bent his head. “I know. It’s my fault. It must be my fault.
Mea culpa
.”

Mrs. Murry asked, “Polly, what makes you think you went through a time gate?”

“Everything was different, Grand. The trees were enormous, sort of like Hiawatha—
this is the forest primeval
. And
the mountains were high and jagged and snow-capped. Young mountains, not ancient hills like ours. And where the valley is, there was a large lake.”

“This is absurd.” Mrs. Murry put a plate of pancakes in front of her husband, then fixed a plate for Polly.

“Nason!” Mr. Murry expostulated.

The bishop looked unhappy. “Whenever I’ve tried to talk about it, you’ve been disbelieving and, well—disapproving,
and I don’t blame you for that, so I’ve kept quiet. I wouldn’t have believed it, either, if it hadn’t kept happening. But I thought it was just me—part of being old and nearly ready to move on to—But Polly. That Polly should have—well! of course!”

“Of course what?” Mr. Murry sounded more angry with each question.

“Polly saw Annie first at the pool.” The bishop used the diminutive of Anaral tenderly.

“Annie who?”

“Anaral,” Polly said. “She’s the girl who came to the pool last night.”

“When you were digging for the pool,” the bishop asked, “what happened?”

“We hit water,” Mr. Murry said. “We’re evidently over an aquifer—an underground river.”

“But this is the highest point in the state,” Polly protested. “Would there be an underground river this high up?

“It would seem so.”

The bishop
put down his fork. Somehow the stack of pancakes had disappeared. “You do remember that most holy places—such as the sites of the great cathedrals in England—were on ground that was already considered holy before even the first pagan temples were built? And the interesting thing is that under most of these holy places is an underground river. This house, and the pool, are on a holy place. That’s
why Anaral was able to come to the pool.”

“Nonsense—” Mrs. Murry started.

Mr. Murry sighed, as though in frustration. “We love the house and our land,” he said, “but it’s a bit farfetched to call it holy.”

“This house is—what?—” the bishop asked, “well over two hundred years old?”

“Parts of it, yes.”

“But the Ogam stones indicate that there were people here three thousand years ago.”

“Nason,
I’ve seen the stone. I believe you that there is Ogam writing on them. I take them seriously. But I don’t want Polly involved in any of your—your—” Mr. Murry pushed up from his place so abruptly that he overturned his chair, righted it with an irritated grunt. The phone rang, making them all jump. Mr. Murry went to it. “Polly, it’s for you.”

This was no time for an interruption. She wanted her
grandparents to put everything into perspective. If they could believe what happened, it would be less frightening.

“Sounds like Zachary.” Her grandfather handed her the phone.

“Good morning, sweet Pol. I just wanted to tell you how good it was to see you yesterday, and I look forward to seeing you on Thursday.”

“Thanks, Zach. I look forward to it, too.”

“Okay, see you then. Just wanted to
double-check.”

She went back to the table. “Yes. It was Zachary, to confirm getting together on Thursday.”

“Something nice and normal,” her grandfather said.

“Is it?” Polly asked. “He did see someone from three thousand years ago.”

“All Hallows’ Eve,” the bishop murmured.

“At least he’ll get you away from here,” her grandmother said. “Strange, isn’t it, that he should know about the Ogam
stones.”

Polly nodded. “Zachary tends to know all kinds of odd things. But what happened this morning is beyond me.”

The bishop said gently, “Three thousand years beyond you, Polly. And, somehow or other, I seem to be responsible for it.”

Mr. Murry went to the dresser and picked up one of the Ogam stones. “Nason, one reason I’ve tended to disbelieve you is that, if what you say is true, then
you, a theologian and not a scientist, have made a discovery which it has taken me a lifetime to work out.”

“Blundered into it inadvertently,” the bishop said.

Mr. Murry sighed. “I thought I understood it. Now I’m not sure.”

“Granddad. Please explain.”

Mr. Murry sat down again, creakily. “It’s a theory of time, Polly. You know something about my work.”

“A little.”

“More than Nase, at any
rate. You have a much better science background. Sorry, Nase, but—”

“I know,” the bishop said. “This is no time for niceties.” He looked at Mrs. Murry. “Would it be possible for me to have another helping of pancakes?” Then, back to Mr. Murry: “This tesseract theory of yours—”