A Wrinkle in Time Quintet

by Madeleine L'engle

—I’m glad Ritchie didn’t hear Goody Adams call Zylle’s people savage heathens, he thought.—It’s a good thing he was in with Zylle. Then he started back to the house. The picture he had seen in the brook the night before troubled him. He was afraid of the dark man with cruel thoughts, and he was afraid of the fire. Since he had tried to repress the pictures, they had become more and more frightening.

  When he reached the cabin and went in through the door, which was propped open to allow all the fresh air possible to enter, his mother came out of the bedroom and spoke to Ritchie, who was pacing up and down in front of the fireplace.

  “Your father needs you, Ritchie. Zylle is resting now, between pains. I will call you at once should she need you.”

  Goody Adams muttered, “The Indian girl does not cry. It is an omen.”

  Ritchie flung back his head. “It is the mark of the Indian, Goody. Zylle will shed no tears in front of you.”

  “Heathen—” Goody Adams started.

  But Goody Llawcae cut her short. “Ritchie. Brandon. Go to your father.”

  Ritchie flung out the door, not deigning to look at the midwife. Brandon followed him, calling, “Ritchie—”

  Ritchie paused, but did not turn around.

  “I hate Goody Adams!” Brandon exploded.

  Now Ritchie looked at his young brother. “Hate never did any good. Everyone in the settlement feels the lash of Goody Adams’s tongue. But her hands bring out living babies, and there’s been no childbed fever since she’s been here.”

  “I liked it better when I was little and there was only us Llawcaes, and the Higginses, and Davey and I used to play with Maddok.”

  “It was simpler then,” Ritchie agreed, “but change is the way of the world.”

  “Is change always good?”

  Ritchie shook his head. “There was more joy when there were just the two families of us, and no Pastor Mortmain to put his dead hand on our songs and stories. I cannot find it in me to believe that God enjoys long faces and scowls at merriment. Get along with you now, Bran. I have work to do, and so do you.”

  When Brandon finished his chores and hurried back to the cabin, walking silently, one foot directly in front of the other, as Maddok had taught him, Ritchie, too, had returned, and was standing in the doorway. The sun was high in the sky and beat fiercely on the cabins and the dusty compound. The grass was turning brown, and the green leaves had lost their sheen.

  Ritchie shook his head. “Not yet. It’s fiercely hot. Look at those thunderheads.”

  “They’ve been there every day.” Brandon looked at the heavy clouds massed on the horizon. “And not a drop of rain.”

  A low, nearly inaudible moan came from the cabin, and Ritchie hurried indoors. From the bedroom came a sharp cry, and Brandon’s skin prickled with gooseflesh, despite the heat. “Oh God, God, make Zylle be all right.” He focused on one small cloud in the dry blue, and there he saw a picture of Zylle and the black-haired, blue-eyed baby. And as he watched, both mother and child changed, and the mother was still black-haired, but creamy of skin, and the baby was bronze-skinned and blue-eyed, and the joy in the face of the mother was the same as in the picture of Zylle. But the fair-skinned mother was not in the familiar landscape but in a wild, hot country, and her clothes were not like the homespun or leather he was accustomed to, but different, finer than clothes he had seen before.

  The baby began to cry, but the cry came not from the baby in the picture but from the cabin, a real cry, the healthy squall of an infant.

  Goody Llawcae came to the door, her face alight. “It’s a nephew you have, Brandon, a bonny boy, and Zylle beaming like the sun. Though sorrow endure for a night, joy cometh in the morning.”

  “It’s afternoon.”

  “Don’t be so literal, lad. Run to let your father know. Now!”

  “But when may I see Zylle and the baby?”

  “After his grandfather has had the privilege. Run!”

  When Goody Adams had at last taken herself off, the Llawcaes gathered about the mother and child. Zylle lay on the big carved bed which Richard Llawcae had made for her and Ritchie as a wedding present. Light from the door to the kitchen-living room fell across her as she held the newborn child in her arms. Its eyes were tightly closed, and it waved tiny fists in searching gestures, and its little mouth opened and closed as though it were sipping its strange new element, air.

  “Oh, taste and see,” Zylle murmured, and touched her lips softly to the dark fuzz on the baby’s head. His copper skin was still moist from the effort of birth and the humidity of the day. In the distance, thunder growled.

  “His eyes?” Brandon whispered.

  “Blue. Goody Adams says the color of the eyes often changes, but Bran’s won’t. No baby could ask for a better uncle. May we name him after you?”

  Brandon nodded, blushing with pleasure, and reached out with one finger to touch the baby’s cheek.

  Richard Llawcae opened the big, much-used Bible, and read aloud, “I love the Lord, because he hath heard my voice and my supplications. The sorrows of death compassed me, and the pains of hell gat hold upon me: I found trouble and sorrow. Then called I upon the name of the Lord. Gracious is the Lord, and righteous. I was brought low, and he helped me. Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.”

  “Amen,” Zylle said.

  Richard Llawcae closed the Book. “You are my beloved daughter, Zylle. When Ritchie chose you for his betrothed, his mother and I were uncertain at first, as were your own people. But it seemed to your father, Zillo, and to me that two legends were coming together in this union. And time has taught us that it was a blessed inevitability.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She reached out to his leathery hand. “Goody Adams did not like it that I shed no tears.”

  Goody Llawcae ran her hand gently over Zylle’s shining black hair. “She knows that it is the way of your people.”

  —Savages, heathen savages, Brandon thought.—That’s what Goody Adams thinks of Zylle’s people.

  When Bran went to do his evening chores a shadow materialized from behind the great trunk of a pine tree. Maddok.

  Brandon greeted him with joy. “I’m glad, glad to see you! Father was going to send me to the Indian compound after chores, but now I can tell you: the baby’s come! A boy, and all is well.”

  The shadow of a smile moved across Maddok’s face, in which the blue eyes were as startling as they were in Zylle. “My father will be glad. Your family will allow us to come tonight, to see the baby?”

  “Of course.”

  Maddok’s eyes clouded. “It’s not ‘of course.’ Not any more.”

  “It is with us Llawcaes. Maddok—how did you know to come, just now?”

  “I saw Zylle yesterday. She told me it would be today.”

  “I didn’t see you.”

  “You weren’t alone. Davey Higgins was with you.”

  “But you and Davey and I always played together. It was the three of us.”

  “Not any more. Davey has been forbidden to leave the settlement and come to the compound. Your medicine man’s gods do not respect our gods.”

  Brandon let his breath out in a sigh that was nearly a groan. “Pastor Mortmain. It’s not our gods that don’t respect your gods. It’s Pastor Mortmain.”

  Maddok nodded. “And his son is courting Davey’s sister.”

  Brandon giggled. “I’d love to see Pastor Mortmain’s face if he heard himself referred to as a medicine man.”

  “He is not a good medicine man,” Maddok said. “He will cause trouble.”

  “He already has. It’s his fault Davey can’t see you.”

  Maddok looked intently into Brandon’s eyes. “My father also sent me to warn you.”

  “Warn? Of what?”

  “We have had runners out. In the town there is much talk of witchcraft.”

  Witchcraft. It was an ugly word. “But not here,” Brandon said.

  “Not yet. But there is t
alk among your people.”

  “What kind of talk?” Brandon asked sharply.

  “My sister shed no tears during the birth.”

  “They know that it is the way of the Indian.”

  “It is also the mark of a witch. They say that a cat ran screaming through the street at the time of the birth, and that Zylle put her pain into the cat.”

  “That is nonsense.” But Brandon’s eyes were troubled.

  “My father says there are evil spirits abroad, hardening men’s hearts. He says there is lust to see evil in innocence. Brandon, my friend and brother, take care of Zylle and the baby.”

  “Zylle and I picked herbs for the birthing,” Brandon said in a low voice.

  “Zylle was taught all the ways of a good delivery, and she has the healing gifts. But that, too, would be looked upon as magic. Black magic.”

  “But it’s not magic—”

  “No. It is understanding the healing qualities of certain plants and roots. People are afraid of knowledge that is not yet theirs. My father is concerned for Zylle, and for you.”

  Brandon protested. “But we are known as God-loving people. Surely they couldn’t think—”

  “Because you are known as such, they will wish to think,” Maddok said. “My father says you should go more with the other children of the settlement, where you can see and hear. It’s better to be prepared. I, too, will keep my ears open.” Without saying goodbye, he disappeared into the forest.

  Late in the evening, when most of the settlement was sleeping, Zylle’s people came through the woods, silently, in single file, approaching the cabin from behind, as Maddok had done in the afternoon.

  They clustered around Zylle and the baby, were served Goody Llawcae’s special cold herb tea, and freshly baked bread, fragrant with golden cheese and sweet butter.

  Zillo took his grandson into his arms, and a shadow of tenderness moved across his impassive face. “Brandon, son of Zylle of the Wind People and son of Ritchie of Llawcae, son of a prince from the distant land of Wales; Brandon, bearer of the blue,” he murmured over the sleeping baby, rocking him gently in his arms.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Brandon saw one of the Indian women go to his mother, talking to her softly. His mother put her hand to her head in a worried gesture.

  And before the Indians left, he saw Zillo take his father aside.

  Despite his joy in his namesake, there was heaviness in his heart when he went to bed, and it was that, as much as the heat, which kept him from sleeping. He could hear his parents talking with Ritchie in the next room, and he shifted position so that he could hear better.

  Goody Llawcae was saying, “People do not like other people to be different. It is hard enough for Zylle, being an Indian, without being part of a family marked as different, too.”

  “Different?” Ritchie asked sharply. “We were the first settlers here.”

  “We come from Wales. And Brandon’s gift is feared.”

  Richard asked his wife, “Did one of the Indians give you a warning?”

  “One of the women. I had hoped this disease of witch-hunting would not touch our settlement.”

  “We must try not to let it start with us,” Goodman Llawcae said. “At least the Higginses will stand by us.”

  “Will they?” Ritchie asked. “Goodman Higgins seems much taken with Pastor Mortmain. And Davey Higgins hasn’t come to do chores with Brandon in a long time.”

  Richard said, “Zillo warned me of Brandon, too.”

  “Brandon—” Goody Llawcae drew in her breath.

  “He saw one of his pictures last night.”

  On hearing this, Brandon hurried into the big room. “Zylle told you!”

  “She did not, Brandon,” his father said, “and eavesdroppers seldom hear anything pleasant. You did give Zylle permission to speak to her father, and it was he who told me. Are you ashamed to tell us?”

  “Ashamed? No, Father, not ashamed. I try not to ask for the pictures, because you don’t want me to see them, and I know it disturbs you when they come to me anyhow. That is why I don’t tell you. I thought you would prefer me not to.”

  His father lowered his head. “It is understandable that you should feel this way. Perhaps we have been wrong to ask you not to see your pictures if they are God’s gift to you.”

  Brandon looked surprised. “Who else would send them?”

  “In Wales it is believed that such gifts come from God. There is not as much fear of devils there as here.”

  “Zylle and Maddok say my pictures come from the gods.”

  “And Zillo warned me,” his father said, “that you must not talk about your pictures in front of anybody, especially Pastor Mortmain.”

  “What about Davey?”

  “Not anybody.”

  “But Davey knows about my pictures. When we were little, I used to describe them to Davey and Maddok.”

  The parents looked at each other. “That was long ago. Let’s hope Davey has forgotten.”

  Ritchie banged his fist against the hard wood of the bedstead. Richard held up a warning hand. “Hush. You will wake your wife and son. Once the heat breaks, people’s temperaments will be easier. Brandon, go back to bed.”

  Back in his room, Brandon tossed hotly on his straw pallet. Even after the rest of the household was quiet, he could not sleep. In the distance he heard the drums. But no rain came.

  The next evening when he was bringing the cow home from the day’s grazing, Davey Higgins came up to him. “Bran, Pastor Mortmain says I am not to speak to you.”

  “You’re speaking.”

  “We’ve known each other all our lives. I will speak as long as I can. But people are saying that Zylle is preventing the rain. The crops are withering. We do not want to offend the Indians, but Pastor Mortmain says that Zylle’s blue eyes prove her to be not a true Indian, and that the Indians were afraid of her and wished her onto us.”

  “You know that’s not true!” Brandon said hotly. “The Indians are proud of the blue eyes.”

  “I know it,” Davey said, “and you know it, but we are still children, and people do not listen to children. Pastor Mortmain has forbidden us to go to the Indian compound, and Maddok is no longer welcome here. My father believes everything Pastor Mortmain says, and my sister is being courted by his son, that pasty-faced Duthbert. Bran, what do your pictures tell you of all this?” Davey gave Brandon a sidewise glance.

  Brandon looked at him directly. “I’m twelve years old now, Davey. I’m no longer a child with a child’s pictures.” He left Davey and took the cow to the shed, feeling that denying the pictures had been an act of betrayal.

  Maddok came around the corner of the shed. “My father has sent me to you, in case there is danger. I am to follow you, but not be seen. But you know Indian ways, and you will see me. So I wanted you to know, so that you won’t be afraid.”

  “I am afraid,” Brandon said flatly.

  “If only it would rain,” Maddok said.

  “You know about weather. Will it rain?”

  Maddok shook his head. “The air smells of thunder, but there will be no rain this moon. There is lightning in the air, and it turns people’s minds. How is Zylle? and the baby?”

  Now Brandon smiled. “Beautiful.”

  At family prayers that evening the Llawcae faces were sober. Richard asked for wisdom, for prudence, for rain. He asked for faithfulness in friendship, and for courage. And again for rain.

  The thunder continued to grumble. The heavy night was sullen with heat lightning. And no drop fell.

  * * *

  The children would not talk with Brandon. Even Davey shamefacedly turned away. Mr. Mortmain, confronting Brandon, said, “There is evil under your roof. You had better see to it that it is removed.”

  When Brandon reported this, Ritchie exploded. “The evil is in Mr. Mortmain’s own heart.”

  The evil was as pervasive as the brassy heat.

  Pastor Mortmain came in the evening to the Llawca
es’ cabin, bringing with him his son, Duthbert, and Goodman Higgins. “We would speak with the Indian woman.”

  “My wife—” Ritchie started, but his father silenced him.

  “It is late for this visit, Pastor Mortmain,” Richard said. “My daughter-in-law and the baby have retired.”

  “Then they must be wakened. It is our intention to discover if the Indian woman is a Christian, or—”

  Zylle walked into the room, carrying her child. “Or what, Pastor Mortmain?”

  Duthbert looked at her, and his eyes were greedy. Goodman Higgins questioned her gently. “We believe you to be a Christian, Zylle. That is true, is it not?”

  “Yes, Goodman Higgins. When I married Ritchie I accepted his beliefs.”

  “Even though they were contrary to the beliefs of your people?” Pastor Mortmain asked.

  “But they are not contrary.”

  “The Indians are pagans,” Duthbert said.

  Zylle looked at the pasty young man over the baby’s head. “I do not know what pagan means. I only know that Jesus of Nazareth sings the true song. He knows the ancient harmonies.”

  Pastor Mortmain drew in his breath in horror. “You say that our Lord and Saviour sings! What more do we need to hear?”

  “But why should he not sing?” Zylle asked. “The very stars sing as they turn in their heavenly dance, sing praise of the One who created them. In the meeting house do we not sing hymns?”

  Pastor Mortmain scowled at Zylle, at the Llawcaes, at his son, who could not keep his eyes off Zylle’s loveliness, at Goodman Higgins. “That is different. You are a heathen and you do not understand.”

  Zylle raised her head proudly. “Scripture says that God loves every man. That is in the Psalms. He loves my people as he loves you, or he is not God.”

  Higgins warned, “You must not blaspheme, child.”

  “Why,” demanded Pastor Mortmain, “are you holding back the rain?”

  “Why ever should I wish to hold back the rain? Our corn suffers as does yours. We pray for rain, twice daily, at morning and at evening prayer.”

  “The cat,” Duthbert said. “What about the cat?”

  “The cat is to keep rodents away from house and barn, like all the cats in the settlement.”