Troubling a Star

by Madeleine L'engle

  Sincerely yours,

  Adam

  No.

  I felt as though I had been kicked in the stomach.

  Adam’s first letters had ended with “Love.” What had happened? What had I done?

  I was too hurt even to want to cry.

  Seven

  I was hallucinating. At least I knew that I was hallucinating, so that meant I had not completely lost touch with reality. I was in Aunt Serena’s kitchen and Cook had the freezer door open and it was snowing and it was terribly cold. Cook took the penguin-feather cape off a hook and put it on.

  “Cook,” I said, “dear Cook, if you and your brother are crazy, then so am I.”

  “We are not crazy,” Cook said. “We are the voice of sanity in a crazy world.”

  “Where are your angels?” I asked. “Where are their feathers?”

  I jerked awake as I realized I was talking out loud. But I wasn’t in Aunt Serena’s kitchen. I was still on the iceberg. If I kept on hallucinating, I didn’t know what would happen to me. I had to keep sane.

  If the Adam who needed help was my Adam, how did that tie in with this letter?

  There was a horrible finality to Adam’s words. I shoved the letter into my pocket.

  Then I realized that Sam was waiting for me to catch up with the group.

  “Vicky?”

  “Hi.” I tried to sound normal.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Sorry I got behind. Are we off to the museum?”

  Sam slipped into step beside me. “Want to take the bus?”

  “No, thanks, I’d rather walk. You take the bus.”

  “Not me. It’s much too nice a day, and it isn’t that far.”

  We saw some passengers climb on to a small white bus. The rest of us straggled along the harbor road. “Look at those houses,” someone said. “I feel I’m on the route from Heathrow into London.”

  “Certainly doesn’t look even vaguely Hispanic.”

  Jorge, who was walking just in front of us, said, “You know a lot about music, Vicky.”

  That was something safe to talk about. “No, it’s my mother. She says she’d never do housework without music. She loves The Magic Flute and she was playing it last month when she was washing the woodwork and getting ready for Christmas. I guess music has sort of seeped into me without my realizing it.” My voice, which had started out galloping unsteadily, sounded almost normal when I finished.

  Sam suggested, “Say, Papageno expected us to recognize that last song he sang. What was it?”

  After a pause, Siri said, “The words were from John’s Revelation, and I think he made up the melody.”

  “John who?” someone asked.

  Sam looked at me. “I’ll wager Vicky knows.”

  I wished he hadn’t put me on the spot. “John, from the last chapter of the Bible. My grandfather used to love it. It’s full of all kinds of poetry.”

  Sam smiled at me approvingly.

  Adam’s letter was burning a hole in my pocket. But I thought I was acting perfectly normal.

  Angelique asked, “Did any of you notice how much Papageno looks like Cook?”

  Sam said, “He’s Cookie’s brother. That’s why Cookie’s leaving the Argosy here at Port Stanley, to visit with his brother, and the rest of us will have to look after Vicky.”

  Jorge said, “It will be a pleasure.”

  “Not that she needs much looking after,” Leilia said, “but we’ll be around if you need us, Vicky.”

  “That crazy man sure could sing,” Jack drawled.

  Sam gave a short laugh. “Crazy like a fox.”

  “You think?”

  Jorge cleared his throat. “He’s a well-known and well-regarded character in the Falklands. But he is eccentric.”

  Greta said, “Mrs. Leeds did seem to have affection for him when she talked about him. By the way, did anybody else get a little note from him, slipped into your hand?”

  Greta’s words stopped me in my tracks.

  Angelique cleared her throat. “I did. I thought it was some kind of joke.”

  “What’s it say, Angel?” Dick asked.

  She shrugged. “It just said, BRING NOTHING IN TAKE NOTHING OUT.”

  “Standard orders,” Dick said. “Benjy and the other lecturers have all emphasized that.”

  “Greta,” Jorge asked, “did you say Papageno slipped you a note?”

  “Yes.”

  Everybody looked at her, and several people stopped walking and we stood in a cluster on the sidewalk. Jorge prodded, “What did it say?”

  “IF YOU WANT TO HURT SOMEONE GIVE HIM SOMETHING HE WANTS.”

  “What?” Leilia questioned.

  “Not so dumb,” Sam said.

  “Explain, Sam,” Greta said.

  “Some people are of the opinion that drugs were introduced into America as a most effective secret weapon.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  Dick said, “It’s feeding into the present feeling that we’re entitled to have whatever gives us any kind of pleasure. We’ve become a pill-popping population.”

  Leilia asked, “Drugs a problem in your school, Vicky?”

  “Sure.” I remembered my grandfather saying, “One definition of hell is having your own way all the time.”

  “Did anybody else get a note?” Jorge asked.

  I didn’t speak. I don’t know why. I couldn’t.

  “Remember,” Siri warned, “Papageno will probably be at the museum.”

  “Wearing all those feathers?” Greta asked.

  “Who knows?”

  “Don’t Maoris wear feathered capes?”

  “Papageno’s from the Falklands, not New Zealand.”

  Papageno’s message to me was in my pocket with Adam’s letter. Maybe I wasn’t the only one to keep my mouth shut. At least this conversation had shifted Sam’s attention from me. All I wanted was to go away from everybody, crawl into some small cave, and lick my wounds.

  But I had to endure going to the museum, which was a small frame house filled with Falklands history, mostly focused on Port Stanley. All kinds of artifacts had been saved: teacups, chamber pots, primitive dentist’s instruments, kitchen utensils; mostly, someone remarked, things which would have been found in any house in rural England a hundred or so years ago. There were photographs of the ships on which people had arrived, and of some of the early farmhouses on the “camps,” as the islands with the sheep were called. Lonely, terribly lonely.

  I put myself on automatic pilot, and noted a stuffed fox, and a strange fish mounted in a glass frame, a fish which seemed to have no red blood corpuscles at all. It was completely colorless and slightly transparent. “It has to be, to survive the Antarctic waters.” Sam was beside me, and I had a feeling he was deliberately staying with me.

  He took me by the arm. “Look. Here’s Papageno.” We walked to a room which was a combination office and lab, where Papageno was standing by a wide work shelf, mounting some beautiful photographs of penguins. His feathered cape was hanging on a hook in the corner, and he wore ordinary jeans and a blue knit vest over a white short-sleeved shirt. I could see that his arms were raked with scars.

  “Well, Miss Vicky,” he said softly, “it is good to see you.”

  I was about to ask Papageno about his note, but several other people came in. Leilia asked Papageno if these were new pictures he was mounting, and he answered that he’d taken them only a week ago, and went on with his work.

  Angelique commented, “We’ve seen a lot of penguins in a couple of days. I’m far more entranced by them than I’d expected to be.”

  Papa nodded. “Um.”

  Siri asked, “They’re doing okay, aren’t they? I mean, holding their numbers?”

  “Increasing.” Papa looked up from his work. “Anybody know why?”

  Leilia replied, “Whales. There are fewer whales than there used to be. They’re a frighteningly endangered species.”

  “What’s tha
t got to do with the penguin population?” someone asked.

  Leilia said, “Fewer whales means more krill for the penguins to eat.”

  Papageno asked, “Why do you think cetaceans gave up the hand with its opposable thumb and the ability to pick things up and look at them, and went back to the sea?”

  Jorge said, without hesitation, “Food. Food was more plentiful in the water than on land, and there were fewer predators.”

  Papa said, “A reasonable answer. But possibly not the only one.”

  Leilia smiled at him. “Agreed. Whales and dolphins seem to me to be way ahead of us on the evolutionary scale. But I guess nobody’ll ever know.”

  “Not unless we learn the way they think,” Papageno agreed. “And probably not then. We human beings, for instance, will never know what made us choose to get up off all fours and stand on our hind legs, thus freeing our forepaws to pick up something.”

  Leilia nodded. “And so we have the hand with the opposable thumb.”

  Papageno took another photograph and started work on it. “It is a good and chastening thing that the human being knows a great deal less than we thought we did a hundred years ago.”

  Jorge and Dick challenged that, and I heard Angelique whisper to Leilia, “That’s something doctors are afraid to admit. Granted, medicine has come a long way, but …”

  I turned away and lost track of the conversation, because I’d shoved my hand into my pocket, and my fingers touched Papageno’s slip of paper and Adam’s note.

  When I tuned in again, it was into a discussion of waste disposal, not only in Antarctica, but all over the world. Someone mentioned hypodermic needles that had been washed up onto beaches a few summers ago. Someone else talked about sewage.

  Dick asked, “What about sewage at the research stations?”

  “It is collected in large containers,” Papageno said. “It doesn’t pose the danger of other waste.”

  “Such as?”

  Papageno shrugged. “Materials with long half-lives.”

  “You mean nuclear waste?” Leilia asked. I thought of Suzy talking about Ned’s concern over disposing of nuclear weapons because of the plutonium and uranium.

  “Um.”

  “Right,” Leilia said. “In Alaska we don’t want any leftover nuclear matter dumped on our glaciers.”

  Papageno bent over his photos, held up one of what looked like tiny dolphins leaping in unison.

  Angelique exclaimed, “I’ve never seen such small dolphins.”

  “Chinstrap penguins, not dolphins,” Papageno corrected her. “But you’re not far off, because it’s called porpoising. I think that porpoises leaping should be called penguining.”

  I’d seen pictures of chinstrap penguins at Aunt Serena’s, well named because they have a black line like a chin strap below their beaks.

  Siri said, “Your pictures show us what Benjy meant when he talked about penguins flying in water.”

  Angelique asked, “Were penguins like porpoises, land animals that went back to the sea for food? That’s where they get their food, isn’t it, not on land?” Papa nodded, and she went on, “Are they land animals or sea animals? They breed on the land, but eat from the sea. They waddle on land, and fly in the water.”

  “If penguins swim like porpoises,” Greta suggested, “and get their food from the sea, are they cetaceans?”

  “Penguins are birds,” Papageno said.

  Quimby came in and told us it was time to get back to the ship, and herded us all out like a bunch of sheep. As we left, Papageno said softly, so I think only Sam and I could hear, “The world’s waste cannot be disposed of easily. Nor can greed, nor lust for power. It is nausinious.”

  Sam whispered to me, “What did he say?”

  I whispered back, “I thought he said nausinious, but he must have meant nauseous.” Or was it another warning?

  “Where’s Cookie?” Sam asked.

  “I don’t know.” I hadn’t seen him since I’d left him with the governor. I needed to talk to him. I couldn’t just get back on the ship without saying goodbye, without telling Cook about Papageno’s note.

  “Don’t fret,” Sam said.

  And then I felt a hand on my shoulder and Benjy was behind me. “Get on the launch, Vicky. Cookie’ll see you later. Don’t worry.” He nodded affirmatively, and I got into line, Sam standing right by me. Greta and Jack were in front of us.

  She turned to smile at me and asked, “What was Cookie doing with Governor Leeds?”

  “They’re old friends,” I replied.

  “I noticed them as we walked past that little sitting room.”

  For some reason I prickled. Greta’s curiosity was perfectly normal. I said, neutrally, “Cook grew up in the Falklands. He knows everybody.”

  “So how does it happen that you’re traveling with Cookie?” Jack asked.

  “He’s a friend of the family.” That seemed the easiest explanation.

  “Isn’t he leaving the ship here?” Jack asked. “You’ll miss him. But you’ll have a shipful of other uncles.”

  “Move up,” Quim said. “Move up. Fill up the front.”

  Greta and Jack went all the way up front to sit with Jorge. Jack’s cowboy clothes were visible again; on our Zodiac excursions they were covered by rubber pants and the red parka, though he usually wore his cowboy hat rather than his parka hood, and he was tall enough so he was easily spotted.

  I found a seat somewhere in the middle of the launch, on a wooden bench, between Otto and Siri. I could not understand why Cook had not come to say goodbye, or how he was going to see me later. I looked at the dock as we pulled away, but Cook was not among the small group of people standing around.

  “Quimby is such a dear,” I heard Siri saying. “Did you know there was a man called Phineas Quimby who was a pioneer in mental healing?”

  “Really?” Otto quirked his brows. “I like that. Not many men with Quimby’s job have that tolerant calm.” Then he turned to me. “Where’s Cookie?”

  I tried not to show how concerned I was. “He’s staying here in Port Stanley, to visit with his brother.”

  Siri said, “Remember, my cabin’s just one door down the hall from yours, Vicky. If you need anything, I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Siri.”

  Angelique leaned over from the seat behind. “Me, too. And I speak for Dick.”

  “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

  Jorge beckoned to Otto, who moved to the front of the launch.

  Siri yawned. “I don’t know why I’m so sleepy. That was fun, this afternoon.”

  “Delightful.” Angelique nodded, and then said to me, “Cookie said you’re looking forward to seeing your boyfriend at LeNoir Station.”

  Not my boyfriend. Not anymore. No matter what I’d thought.

  I hoped my voice didn’t sound brittle. “I’m not ready yet for a serious boyfriend. Too much school still ahead of me.”

  Siri said, “I gather pressure’s being put on Otto to look for a wife.”

  Angelique said, “Not many princesses aboard the Argosy.”

  Siri smiled. “Fairy-tale princes do marry princesses, don’t they? I hope Otto will do better than the British royal family.”

  She and Angelique chatted until the launch pulled up beside the Argosy.

  I turned my red manifest number to the yellow side and went to my cabin. I took Adam’s letters and cards, Adam II’s letter, and the warning cards from school, and spread them out on the second bunk, adding the letter from Adam I’d been given at Government House. None of it added up. Something was definitely miching mallecho, and I had no idea what.

  Where was Cook?

  I put the letters and cards away and went out to the fo’c’sle. I felt too horrible even to cry. I listened as the anchor was pulled up. The ship’s engines throbbed, and we began to pull away from Port Stanley. John’s warning about Cook throbbed in my ears, echoing the rhythm of the engine.

  I still couldn’t quite believe that Cook h
ad just gone off and left me in Port Stanley, though it was no more strange than Adam’s brusque letter, tossing me away as though we’d never meant anything to each other.

  Several passengers came out with their cameras, and there was lots of general talk about how pleasant the afternoon in Port Stanley had been. I listened as Leilia described Papageno’s penguin-feathered cape to one of the passengers who had not been in the first group. I turned and saw Angelique touch Dick’s cheek in a gesture of tenderness. I noticed that Sam was standing not far from me, looking at me. I pretended not to see him.

  Gradually, people began to leave the fo’c’sle. It was time for Wrap-Up, for people to gather together in the lounge for drinks.

  “Coming, Vicky?” Sam asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “In a few minutes.”

  “I’ll save you a seat. Shall I order you a ginger ale?”

  “Please. Thanks.”

  He left, looking back at me once, and went into the lounge. I stayed at the rail, staring at the grey expanse of water widening as we left Port Stanley. Then I saw something moving toward us. At first I thought it was one of the launches, coming back for some reason, because it was about the same size. But then I realized it was a different kind of boat, blue and shabby, with PORTIA painted on the side. Cook was standing on the foredeck, waving at me and calling, “Wait right there, Vicky.”

  I nodded and the boat turned to go to the portside of the Argosy. I thought I saw Papageno at the wheel, and remembered that Cook had told me his brother had a seaworthy old boat.

  After about five minutes, a side door opened and Cook came out. “Seth and I are taking off this evening, and I wanted to talk with you first. You had a chance to visit with him at the museum?”

  “With lots of other people.”

  “I know, Vicky. I’m sorry. This is not exactly turning out to be the quiet trip we’d planned.”

  “Cookie—” I drew in my breath, let it out. “You really wanted me to come with you on this trip?”

  “Very much. But I think it’s just as well I’m leaving you here.”