Troubling a Star

by Madeleine L'engle

  We tramped across rough terrain to a large crèche of baby king penguins, most of whom were making their funny, chirpy, whistling sounds. They certainly didn’t look undernourished. Their little bellies were round from all the regurgitated food their parents had fed them, and I watched one mother bending over her fat baby, whose beak was wide open, waiting for food. Not the way I’d want to be fed.

  Benjy tapped me on the shoulder, indicating that I should follow him and Siri. We walked away from the others, around to the far side of the crèche, until Benjy stopped. Siri got her harp out of the canvas case and began to play. Nursery rhymes this time, “Jack and Jill,” and “Little Bo Peep,” and “The Man in the Moon.” She had placed herself the recommended fifteen feet from the crèche, but before she had sung for more than a minute, several little ones crowded up to her, and then two of them crawled onto her lap. One of them began pecking at her harp, so she lifted it high above her head, and Benjy took it. Siri kept on singing, and the little chicks cuddled in to her, and she put her arms around them, still singing, and held them close.

  Benjy turned away, as though to protect Siri’s harp, but I thought I saw tears in his eyes.

  Well, it was pretty amazing. And I felt enormously privileged to have been part of it. Otto would really have liked it, I thought, but he was off with Jack Nessinger, and, anyhow, Benjy didn’t want a crowd.

  He said, “We’d better get going before we’re discovered. Quim will be gathering us at the Zodiacs.” Gently he lifted the chicks from Siri’s lap and put them back in the crèche.

  Siri put her harp in its case, and we started back. I walked a little behind, not wanting to butt in, but they included me in the conversation.

  Siri laughed, a pure little bubbling of joy. “Benjy, thank you. I don’t know when I’ve had such a glorious time. Now I can’t wait to see them in the water.”

  “People think penguins can’t fly because they’re such waddlers on land,” Benjy said. “But they’re made to fly in water, not air. When we get a chance, we’ll go off in one of the Zodiacs and maybe you can play for them while they swim. They use their flippers to paddle at amazing speeds, up to fifteen miles an hour. They steer with their feet and their funny little tails, which they also use for balance when they sit. A lot of the penguin’s life is at sea, so its sea skills are more important than its land ones. When you’ve looked at enough of them, you’ll understand how they’ve evolved over the centuries the way they have.”

  The wind had come up and the water was rough, and Siri cradled her harp rather than slinging it across her back. When we sidled up to the ship, the Zodiacs were going up and down, up and down, so I was glad of sailors waiting by the ladder to help us. Sam had not come ashore; he said he was saving his energy for Port Stanley, and I thought it was just as well. Quim had taught us to reach for the helping sailor’s forearm, rather than hand, which would give us more purchase, and when the Zodiac dropped into a trough just as I was leaping from the rubber side to the metal stairs, I needed a strong heave to keep me from falling.

  Cook came out of his cabin as I left mine to go to the fo’c’sle. “Had a good time this morning, Vicky?”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Feeling comfortable with Benjy?”

  I nodded vigorously. “He’s wonderful. Thanks for letting me go off with him and Siri.”

  “In this case, three was company and four would have been a crowd. I wanted you to get to know Benjy without my hovering presence.”

  “You don’t hover.”

  “No more than necessary. But I’ll be leaving you this afternoon, and I want to make sure you’re not worried.”

  I had almost forgotten my anxieties about those anonymous warnings and Adam’s ambiguous ones, though they lurked just under the surface. “I’m okay.”

  “If anything bothers you, anything at all, go straight to Benjy. He will take whatever you say seriously.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Not that I expect any problems, not on the Argosy. I just want you to feel secure.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “Good.”

  “Yesterday—you heard Siri’s song?”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Do you think it’s true? Every action has inevitable consequences?”

  “I’m not sure about inevitable. Actions do have consequences, and not all of them are bad. Some of them are miraculously good.”

  I looked at him questioningly. We went out onto the fo’c’sle and stood at the rail.

  He said, “I believe in a pattern for the universe, a pattern that affirms meaning, and perhaps especially when things seem meaningless. Everything we do has a part in the weaving of the pattern, even our wrong decisions. But I believe that the beauty of the pattern will not be irrevocably distorted. That is a hope we learn to live with.”

  I looked out at the water, thinking.

  He glanced at me briefly, then back out to sea. “When the pattern is torn, there is a healing power that can mend. Let me make a metaphor. Sometimes our angels come and give us a nudge and we go in a direction we might have missed otherwise, and so we are helped to make a right step, or to avoid doing something which might have terrible consequences. Sometimes we are not able to or choose not to heed the nudge. We are creatures who have been given the terrible gift of free will, and that means we are responsible for our actions and have to suffer the consequences. Without our angels, I believe we would be in a worse state than we are.”

  I thought of Aunt Serena and Owain both asking angels to watch over me.

  I looked at Cook and he smiled. “I believe in angels. I can’t give you any proof or any further explanations, because angelic guidance is not to be understood by our finite minds. But I believe in it.”

  “Okay. Thank you. I get it. Sort of.”

  “Sort of is good enough.”

  When we anchored off Port Stanley, the wind had dropped and the weather was calm and beautiful. We lined up to go ashore and Quimby handed out several letters. I had one from my mother. Everybody was fine, and they missed me. She’d have a letter waiting for me when we landed in Puerto Williams. I gave Quimby some cards to mail. I didn’t exactly miss my family. I just felt that I’d traveled further away from them than in ordinary space and time.

  There was nothing from Adam.

  The short trip in the launch was smooth. We were able to wear ordinary walking shoes because this would be a dry landing and we wouldn’t have to wade in through the water in our big boots. I wondered if Seth Cook might be at the dock, but no one was there except a couple of sailors to help the older people.

  I looked at Cook, who seemed to know what I was thinking. “Don’t worry, Vicky. Seth won’t come to meet us in a crowd. Wait.”

  Angelique and Dick walked together, arm in arm. Dick was leaning on his cane, and Angelique carried their parkas; she wore a cream-colored shirt which accentuated her dark skin, as did the thin gold chain. Her beauty fascinated me because it was casual and unflaunting.

  I heard her remark on how very British Port Stanley is, with small houses with flower-filled gardens, and many superb lupines, like the ones Otto had pointed out to me in Punta Arenas. I love lupines, and we have them at home, but these were much larger than the ones in our rock garden. One man who was out digging in his front yard stopped to speak to us and said that the weather had been sleety and horrid for weeks, and this lovely weather had just moved in the day before, and everybody was out taking advantage of it. Nothing we heard or saw reminded us that we were at the bottom of the world just above the tip of South America.

  We wandered around for half an hour until it was time for our tea at Government House. As we got up to the big white house, I thought it looked pleasant and rambly. A glassed-in conservatory ran the length of it, and we peered through the panes to see absolutely glorious flowers. There were comfortable garden chairs and tables, and Cook remarked that it was very pleasant to sit there when the outside weather was nasty.

&nb
sp; The front door was opened by a white-coated butler, and then we were welcomed by the governor’s wife, Mrs. Leeds. We left our parkas in a large dressing/bath room; we really didn’t need them, but Quimby had told us it was likely to be cold on the trip back to the ship and advised us to bring them along.

  We were led into a spacious parlor, even larger than Aunt Serena’s. Mrs. Leeds was tall and slender and gracious and was clearly used to hosting gatherings.

  We had been divided into two groups, so we wouldn’t be overwhelming, and Cook and I were in the first group. We sat in comfortable chairs and Mrs. Leeds told us a little about the island, and about the Falklands war, and how shocking it was for people to wake up one morning and find armed soldiers in the streets telling them they were now Argentinean and had to speak Spanish. I already had a sense of this very English town, and I tried to imagine the Argentinean invasion happening in Thornhill, and being told we weren’t Americans anymore. I didn’t think any of our neighboring Yankee farmers would take kindly to having to speak a strange language.

  “People are just beginning to feel safe again, after all this time,” Mrs. Leeds said.

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a uniformed maid in the doorway. She caught Cook’s eye and beckoned. He turned to me, and she nodded. “Vicky,” he said softly, and I followed him out of the room into the hall.

  “Sir, Miss Austin, the governor expects you in the sitting room.”

  We followed her and saw Otto coming out a door. He looked solemn, if not angry and upset, but when he saw us he broke into a great golden smile. “Vicky! Cookie! Hi! Rusty’s expecting you.”

  He waved, and we went past him into a small, comfortable room, much less formal than the grand parlor. The governor—I knew it must be he, because he had rusty hair and a rusty mustache—rose from a leather chair, holding out his hand. “Greetings, Adam.”

  For a moment I was startled. Then I remembered that Cook’s first name was Adam. The governor took my hand. “And this must be Vicky.”

  We shook hands, and Cook said, “Good to see you, Rusty.” I tried to imagine Mr. Leeds in the musical-comedy uniform in Aunt Serena’s album and decided he could get away with it without looking idiotic.

  He offered me a chair near the fireplace, where there was something faintly glowing and smelling somehow cozy and comforting. “Peat,” Mr. Leeds said. “This is where my wife and I like to sit and read in the evenings. It’s really too warm for a fire today, but if we let it go out completely, it’s hard to get started again, so I have it banked.”

  Otto had talked about peat, and I’d read about peat fires in novels set in England or Ireland, but I’d never seen one before. I could picture the Leedses sitting there with books and cups of tea and relaxing together. I wondered what it would be like to govern a small series of islands like the Falklands where a lot of your constituents would be penguins and sheep.

  The governor leaned toward me. “Serena Eddington has written about you most glowingly, Vicky. Are you enjoying your travels?”

  “Very much indeed, thank you.”

  “I wish you could stay and visit with us for a few days, but I understand that going on south to the Antarctic is the main point of this trip. There’s not a great deal to see, but what there is, is spectacular.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Pleasant fellow passengers?”

  “Very.”

  “An interesting group,” Cook said. “Vicky’s already made friends with several of them.”

  The governor smiled at me. “Why don’t you join your fellow passengers for tea? Adam Cook and I have a few things to talk about.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Very nice to have met you, sir.”

  I went into the big room just before the last of the cucumber sandwiches vanished, and had a cup of smoky tea, the kind you put milk in. I looked around, but I didn’t see Otto. I wondered why he’d been with the governor. Well. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

  I heard Mrs. Leeds suggesting that after tea we visit the museum, which was down the street. There was a bus if we didn’t feel like walking. Then she said she had a treat for us.

  In came the most extraordinary man I’d ever seen. He was very tall and he wore a full-length cape of black-and-white feathers, so that he looked like an enormous penguin. He didn’t waddle like a penguin, however, but walked around the room, bowing and smiling, then stood with his back to the fireplace and surveyed us all.

  I looked at him. He had a deep white scar slashing across one cheek. Otherwise, the face could have been Cook’s. This was Cook’s brother, Seth.

  “Welcome. My name is Papageno.” He smiled and looked directly at me. “Now, then, Vicky, do you know why?”

  We were all wearing our name pins. Even so, it surprised me. He looked at me.

  It’s a good thing I have a mother who loves music, and whose favorite opera is The Magic Flute. “Papageno’s the bird man in Mozart’s Magic Flute,” I said.

  Sam said, “Bravo, Vicky,” and I blushed.

  Papageno—Seth—took the attention off me by beginning to sing. He had a wonderful deep voice, and I could have gone on listening for hours. Siri was sitting across from me, and her mouth was slightly open as she listened. Benjy stood behind her, one hand lightly on her shoulder.

  After a few ballads Papageno said, “One last song. The words may be familiar to you,” and he sang:

  I am the root and the offspring of David,

  and the bright and morning star.

  And the spirit and the bride say, Come.

  And let him that heareth say, Come.

  And let him that is athirst come.

  And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.

  For I am the root,

  And the bright and morning star.

  I thought of Siri and her song, “Thou canst not stir a flower without troubling of a star.” When I am at home I love to go out after dinner with Mr. Rochester and look at the stars. On the Argosy we wouldn’t be seeing stars as we sailed farther south because the sky would be light until long after we were asleep. I wouldn’t want to live for half the year in perpetual daylight and never see stars, each one a flaming sun, and each one light-years away. Some of the nearest stars are only seven or so light-years in the past, and some are hundreds and thousands, stars long dead before their living light ever reaches us. If what we do troubles a star, is it in the star’s own time, who knows how many thousands of years ago, or is it in our time, when we are seeing it?

  “I am the bright and morning star,” Papageno finished, and bowed, to much applause. On his way out he paused by several people, usually saying something in a soft voice. When he came to me, he bowed and said, “You may call me Papa,” and slipped a small piece of paper into my hand, very unobtrusively. I opened my hand and looked at the paper, trying to be equally unobtrusive. I expected to see something about meeting Cook, or some kind of greeting, but what I read was: FIRST MAN STILL SAFE NEEDS HELP.

  What on earth?

  Who needed help? First man?

  First man! Adam! Adam was the first man. Was he talking about my Adam? And if he was, why did he give the slip of paper to me, not to his brother?

  I looked around and I didn’t see Cook. He must still be in the little sitting room with the governor. Was I supposed to give Papageno’s message to Cook? Or could the Adam who needed help be Adam Cook rather than Adam Eddington?

  Deep in my thoughts, I followed along with everybody else while we were given a tour of the house, which rambled comfortably from one wing to another. I wasn’t listening to Mrs. Leeds until I heard her say, “Papa,” and then my ears pricked up. She was laughing. “Oh, don’t tell him I called him that. Papageno is very slow to offer his nickname to people. He’s not often willing to sing for strangers, so you really had an unusual treat.”

  “Isn’t his real name Seth?” someone asked.

  “It is. But he says Seth was killed by the seal, and indeed it is a miracle that he re
covered, largely thanks to his brother, who came from America to nurse him.”

  “Cookie,” Sam said in a satisfied voice, and Leilia smiled and nodded.

  Mrs. Leeds said, “If you go to the museum—and I do hope you will, it’s truly charming—you may see Papageno there. He’s done a lot of work on the exhibitions, and he has some magnificent photographs of penguins. He’s a unique person, and he does care passionately about these islands and all of us who live here.”

  We said goodbye and thank you to Mrs. Leeds, and as we were leaving, the second group was arriving. I was glad we’d been in the first group, especially if, as Mrs. Leeds had implied, Papageno had gone to the museum and wouldn’t be singing again.

  As we started out the front door, the butler stopped me. “Miss Austin?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a letter for you.” He handed me an envelope, not postmarked, with no address, only my name on it. I took it and followed after the group, several yards behind.

  I looked at the envelope, which bore the Government House crest and return address. I opened it and pulled out a sheet of letter paper and saw Adam’s writing.

  I scanned it quickly, then went over it slowly, not believing what I’d read.

  Dear Vicky,

  Thank you for your letters. I think it’s probably best if we don’t write anymore. We’re too young to have a serious involvement, and now that I’m finally off to LeNoir Station I have to put all my energy into my work here. I will always consider you Austins good friends. When you stop off at the station, we’ll at least have a chance to say hello. But I hope you agree that we’d better cool it.