“Where did you find this rock, Nase?” Mrs. Murry sat at the table and poured herself some tea.
“In that old stone wall you have to cross to get to the star-watching rock.”
“Louise the Larger’s wall!” Polly exclaimed, thinking that it was natural that the bishop should know about the star-watching rock; it had been a special place for the entire Murry family, not only her mother.
The bishop continued, “The early settlers were so busy clearing their fields, it was no wonder they didn’t notice stones with Ogam markings.”
“Ogam is an alphabet,” Zachary explained to Polly. “A Celtic alphabet, with fifteen consonants and some vowels, with a few other signs for diphthongs, or double letters like ng.”
“Ogam, however,” the bishop added, “was primarily an oral, rather than a written, language. Would your boss like to see this stone?”
“He’d drop his teeth.” Zachary grinned. “But I’m not going to tell him. He’d just come and take over. No way.” He looked at his watch, stood up. “Listen, this has been terrific, and I’ve enjoyed meeting everybody, but I didn’t realize what time it was, and I’ve got a dinner date back in Hartford, but I’d like to drive over again soon if I may.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Murry rose. “Anytime. The only people Polly has seen since she’s been here are the four of us antiques.”
“You’re not—” Polly started to protest.
But her grandmother continued, “There aren’t many young people around, and we’ve worried about that.”
“Do come, any weekend,” Mr. Murry urged.
“Yes, do,” Polly agreed.
“I don’t really have to wait for the weekend,” Zachary said. “I have Thursday afternoons off.” He looked at Polly and she smiled at him. “Okay if I drive over then? It’s not too much over an hour. I could be here by two.”
“Of course. We’ll expect you then.”
They Murry grandparents and Polly accompanied Zachary out of the kitchen, past Mrs. Murry’s lab, and through the garage. Zachary’s small red sports car was parked next to a bright blue pickup truck.
Mr. Murry indicated it. “Nase’s pride and joy. He drives like a madman. It’s very pleasant to have met you, Zachary, and we look forward to seeing you on Thursday.”
Zachary shook hands with the Murrys, kissed Polly lightly.
“What a nice young man,” Mrs. Murry said, as they went back into the house.
And in the kitchen the bishop echoed her. “What a delightful young man.”
“How amazing,” Mr. Murry said, “that he knows about the Ogam stones.”
“Oh, there’ve been a couple of articles about them in the Hartford papers,” Dr. Louise said. “But he does seem a charming and bright young man. Very pale, though. Looks as if he spends too much time indoors. How do you know him, Polly?”
Polly squatted in front of the fire. “I met him last summer in Athens, before I went to the conference in Cyprus.”
“What’s his background?”
“He’s from California, and his father’s into all kinds of multinational big business. When Zachary bums around Europe he doesn’t backpack, he stays in the best hotels. But I think he’s kind of lonely.”
“He’s taking time off from college?”
“Yes. He’s in college a little late. He didn’t do well in school because if he’s not interested, he doesn’t bother.” A half-grown kitten pushed out of the cellar, stalked across the room, and jumped into Polly’s lap, causing her to sit back on her heels. “So where’ve you been, Hadron?” Polly scratched the striped head.
Dr. Louise raised her eyebrows. “A natural name for a subatomic physicist’s cat.”
The bishop said, mildly, “I thought it was a variant of Hadrian.”
“Or we were mispronouncing it?” Mrs. Murry suggested.
He sighed. “I suppose it’s a name for a subatomic particle or something like that?”
Dr. Louise asked, “Kate, why don’t you and Alex get another dog?”
“Ananda lived to be sixteen. We haven’t been that long without a dog.”
“This house doesn’t seem right without a dog.”
“That’s what Sandy and Dennys keep telling us.” Mr. Murry turned from the stove and began drawing the curtains across the wide kitchen windows. “We’ve never gone out looking for dogs. They just seem to appear periodically.”
Polly sighed comfortably and shifted position. She loved her grandparents and the Colubras because they affirmed her, made her believe in infinite possibilities. At home on Benne Seed Island, Polly was the eldest of a large family. Here she was the only one, with all the privileges of an only child. She looked up as her grandfather hefted the Ogam stone and set it down on the kitchen dresser.
“Three thousand years,” he said. “Not much in galactic terms, but a great deal of time in human terms. Time long gone, as we limited creatures look at it. But when you’re up in a space shuttle, ordinary concepts of time and space vanish. We still have much to learn about time. We’ll never leave the solar system as long as we keep on thinking of time as a river flowing from one direction into the sea.” He patted the stone.
“You’ve found other Ogam stones?” Polly asked.
“I haven’t. Nase has. Nase, Polly might well be able to help out with the translations. She has a positive genius for languages.”
Polly flushed. “Oh, Granddad, I just—”
“You speak Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, and French, don’t you?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And didn’t you study some Chinese?”
Now she laughed. “One day, maybe. I do love languages. Last summer I picked up a little Greek.”
Mrs. Murry lit the two kerosene lamps which flanked the pot of geraniums on the table. “Polly’s being modest. According to those who know—her parents, her uncles—her ability with languages is amazing.” Then, to Polly’s relief, she changed the subject. “Louise, Nase, you will stay for dinner, won’t you?”
The doctor shook her head. “I think we’d better be heading for home. Nase drives like a bat out of hell at night.”
“Now, really, Louise—”
Mrs. Murry said, “I have a large mess of chicken and vegetables simmering over the Bunsen burner in the lab. We’ll be eating it for a week if you don’t help us out.”
“It does seem an imposition—you’re always feeding us—”
The bishop offered, “We’ll do the dishes tonight, and give Polly and Alex a vacation.”
“It’s a bargain,” Mr. Murry said.
Dr. Louise held out her hands. “I give in. Alex. Kate.” She indicated the Ogam stone. “You really take all this seriously?”
Mr. Murry replied, “Oddly enough, I do, Celts, druids, and all. Kate is still dubious, but—”
“But we’ve been forced to take even stranger things seriously.” Mrs. Murry headed for the door. “I’m off to get the casserole and finish it in the kitchen.”
Polly shivered. “It’s freezing in the lab. Grand was showing me how to use a gas chromatography this morning but icicles trickled off the end of my nose and she sent me in. Uncle Sandy calls me a swamp blossom.”
Dr. Louise smiled. “Your grandmother’s machinery is all for show. Her real work is up in her head.”
“I couldn’t get along without the Bunsen burner. Why don’t you go for a swim, Polly? You know the pool’s the warmest place in the house.”
It was Polly’s regular swimming time. She agreed readily. She loved to swim in the dark, by the light of the stars and a young moon. Swimming time, thinking time.
“See you in a bit.” She stood up, shaking a reluctant Hadron out of her lap.
Up the back stairs. The first day, when her grandparents had taken her upstairs, she had not been sure where they were going to put her. Her mother’s favorite place was the attic, with a big brass bed under the eaves, where her parents slept on their infrequent visits. On the second floor was her grandparen
ts’ room, with a grand four-poster bed. Across the hall was Sandy and Dennys, her uncles’ room, with their old bunk beds, because on the rare occasions when the larger family was able to get together, all beds were needed. There was a room which might have been another bedroom but which was her grandfather’s study, with bookshelves and a scarred rolltop desk, and a pull-out couch for overflow. Then there was her uncle Charles Wallace’s room—her mother’s youngest brother.
Polly had had a rather blank feeling that there was no room in her grandparents’ house that was hers. Despite the fact that she had six brothers and sisters, she was used to having her own room with her own things. Each of the O’Keefe children did, though the rooms were little bigger than cubicles, for their parents believed that particularly in a large family a certain amount of personal space was essential.
As they climbed the stairs her grandmother said, “We’ve spruced up Charles Wallace’s room. It isn’t big, but I think you might like it.”
Charles Wallace’s room had been more than spruced up. It looked to Polly as though her grandparents had known she was coming, though the decision had been made abruptly only three days before she was put on the plane. When action was necessary, her parents did not procrastinate.
But the room, as she stepped over the threshold, seemed to invite her in. There was a wide window which looked onto the vegetable garden, then on past a big mowed field to the woods, and then the softly hunched shoulders of the mountains. It was a peaceful view, not spectacular, but gentle to live with, and wide and deep enough to give perspective. The other window looked east, across the apple orchard to more woods. The wallpaper was old-fashioned, soft blue with a sprinkling of daisies almost like stars, with an occasional bright butterfly, and the window curtains matched, though there were more butterflies than in the wallpaper.
Under the window of the east wall were bookshelves filled with books, and a rocking chair. The books were an eclectic collection, several volumes of myths and fairy tales, some Greek and Roman history, an assortment of novels, from Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones to Matthew Maddox’s The Horn of Joy, and on up to contemporary novels. Polly pulled out a book on constellations, with lines drawn between the stars to show the signs of the zodiac. Someone had to have a vivid imagination, she thought, to see a Great and Little Bear, or Sagittarius with his bow and arrow. There was going to be plenty to read, and she was grateful for that.
The floor was made of wide cherrywood boards, and there were small hooked rugs on either side of the big white-pine bed, which had a patchwork quilt in blues and yellows. What Polly liked most was that although the room was pretty it wasn’t pretty-pretty. Charles, she thought, would have liked it.
She had turned to her grandmother. “Oh, it’s lovely! When did you do all this?”
“Last summer.”
Last summer her grandparents had had no idea that Polly would be coming to live with them. Nevertheless, she felt that the room was uniquely hers. “I love it! Oh, Grand, I love it!”
She had called her parents, described the room. Her grandparents had left her to talk in privacy, and she said, “I love Grand and Granddad. You should see Granddad out on his red tractor. He’s not intimidating at all.”
There was laughter at that. “Did you expect him to be?”
“Well—I mean, he knows so much about astrophysics and space travel, and he gets consulted by presidents and important people. But he’s easy to talk to—well, he’s my grandfather and I think he’s terrific.”
“I gather it’s mutual.”
“And Grand isn’t intimidating, either.”
Her parents (she could visualize them, her mother lying on her stomach across the bed, her father perched on a stool in the lab, surrounded by tanks of starfish and octopus) both laughed.
Polly was slightly defensive. “We do call her Grand and that sounds pretty imposing.”
“That’s only because you couldn’t say Grandmother when you started to talk.”
“Well, and she did win a Nobel Prize.”
Her father said, reasonably, “She’s pretty terrific, Polly. But she’d much rather have you love her than be impressed at her accomplishments.”
Polly nodded at the telephone. “I do love her. But remember, I’ve never really had a chance to know Grand and Granddad. We lived in Portugal for so long, and Benne Seed Island might have been just as far away. A few visits now and then hasn’t been enough. I’ve been in awe of them.”
“They’re good people,” her father said. “Talented, maybe a touch of genius. But human. They were good to me, incredibly good, when I was young.”
“It’s time you got to know them,” her mother added. “Be happy, Polly.”
She was. Happy as a small child. Not that she wanted to regress, to lose any of the things she had learned from experience, but with her grandparents she could relax, completely free to be herself.
She grabbed her bathing suit from the bathroom and went along to her room. Downstairs she could hear people moving about, and then someone put on music, Schubert’s “Trout” Quintet, and the charming music floated up to her.
She left her jeans and sweatshirt in a small heap on the floor, slipped into her bathing suit and a terry-cloth robe, and went downstairs and out to the pool. She hung her robe on the towel tree, waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light, then slid into the water and began swimming laps. She swam tidily, displacing little water, back and forth, back and forth. She flipped onto her back, looking up at the skylights, and welcoming first one star, then another. Turned from her back to her side, swimming dreamily. A faint sound made her slow down, a small scratching. She floated, listening. It came from one of the windows which lined the north wall from the floor up to the slant of the roof.
She could not see anything. The scratching turned into a gentle tapping. She pulled herself up onto the side of the pool, went to the window. There was a drop of about five feet from the window to the ground. In the last light, she could just see a girl standing on tiptoe looking up at her, a girl about her own age, with black hair braided into a long rope which was flung over her shoulder. At her neck was a band of silver with a stone, like a teardrop, in the center.
“Hi,” Polly called through the dark glass.
The girl smiled and reached up to knock again. Polly slid the window open. “May I come in?” the girl asked.
Polly tugged at the screen till it, too, opened.
The girl sprang up and caught the sill, pulling herself into the room, followed by a gust of wind. Polly shut the screen and the window. The girl appeared to be about Polly’s age, and she was exotically beautiful, with honey-colored skin and eyes so dark the pupils could barely be distinguished.
“Forgive me,” the girl said formally, “for coming like this. Karralys saw you this afternoon.” She spoke with a slight accent which Polly could not distinguish.
“Karralys?”
“Yes. At the oak tree, with his dog.”
“Why didn’t he say hello?” Polly asked.
The girl shook her head. “It is not often given to see the other circles of time. But then Karralys and I talked, and thought I should come here to the place of power. It seemed to us that you must have been sent to us in this strange and difficult—” She broke off as a door slammed somewhere in the house. She put her hand to her mouth. Whispered, “I must go. Please—” She seemed so frightened that Polly opened the window for her.
“Who are you?”
But the girl jumped down, landing lightly, and was off across the field toward the woods, running as swiftly as a wild animal.
Chapter Two
The whole incident made no sense whatsoever. Polly put on her robe and headed for the kitchen, looking for explanations, but saw no one. Probably everybody was out in the lab, where it was definitely too chilly for a swamp blossom in a wet bathing suit and a damp terry-cloth robe.
Her parents had worried that she might be lonely with no people her own age around, and in one day she
had seen three, the blue-eyed young man by the oak—though he was probably several years older than she; Zachary; and now this unknown girl.
Upstairs in her room, the stripy cat was lying curled in the center of the bed, one of his favorite places. She picked him up and held him and he purred, pleased with her damp warmth.
“Who on earth was that girl?” she demanded. “And what was she talking about?” She squeezed the cat too tightly and he jumped from her arms and stalked out of the room, brown-and-amber tail erect.
She dressed and went downstairs. The bishop was in the kitchen, sitting in one of the shabby but comfortable chairs by the fireplace. She joined him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m just puzzled. While I was swimming there was a knock on one of the windows, and I got out of the pool to look, and there was this girl, about my age, with a long black braid and sort of exotic eyes, and I let her in, and she—well, she made absolutely no sense at all.”
“Go on.” The bishop was alert, totally focused on her words.
“This afternoon by the Grandfather Oak—you know the tree I mean?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a young man and a dog. The girl said the man with the dog had seen me, and then something about circles of time, and then she heard a noise and got frightened and ran away. Who do you suppose she was?”
The bishop looked at Polly without answering, simply staring at her with a strange, almost shocked look on his face.
“Bishop?”
“Well, my dear—” He cleared his throat. “Yes. It is indeed strange. Strange indeed.”
“Should I tell my grandparents?”
He hesitated. Cleared his throat. “Probably.”
She nodded. She trusted him. He hadn’t had a cushy job as bishop. Her grandparents had told her that he’d been in the Amazon for years, taught seminary in China, had a price on his head in Peru. When he was with so-called primitive people he listened to them, rather than imposing his own views. He honored others.
A Wrinkle in Time Quintet Page 79
