A Wrinkle in Time: 50th Anniversary Edition

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  “Are you fighting the Black Thing?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Aunt Beast replied. “In doing that, we can never relax. We are called according to His purpose, and whom He calls, them He also justifies. Of course we have help, and without help it would be much more difficult.”

  “Who helps you?” Meg asked.

  “Oh, dear, it is so difficult to explain things to you, small one. And I know now that it is not just because you are a child. The other two are as hard to reach into as you are. What can I tell you that will mean anything to you? Good helps us, the stars help us, perhaps what you would call light helps us, love helps us. Oh, my child, I cannot explain! This is something you just have to know or not know.”

  “But—”

  “We look not at the things which are what you would call seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporal. But the things which are not seen are eternal.”

  “Aunt Beast, do you know Mrs Whatsit?” Meg asked with a sudden flooding of hope.

  “Mrs Whatsit?” Aunt Beast was puzzled. “Oh, child, your language is so utterly simple and limited that it has the effect of extreme complication.” Her four arms, tentacles waving, were outflung in a gesture of helplessness. “Would you like me to take you to your father and your Calvin?”

  “Oh, yes, please!”

  “Let us go, then. They are waiting for you to make plans. And we thought you would enjoy eating—what is it you call it? oh, yes, breakfast—together. You will be too warm in that heavy fur, now. I will dress you in something lighter, and then we will go.”

  As though Meg were a baby, Aunt Beast bathed and dressed her, and this new garment, though it was made of a pale fur, was lighter than the lightest summer clothes on earth. Aunt Beast put one tentacled arm about Meg’s waist and led her through long, dim corridors in which she could see only shadows, and shadows of shadows, until they reached a large, columned chamber. Shafts of light came in from an open skylight and converged about a huge, round, stone table. Here were seated several of the great beasts, and Calvin and Mr. Murry, on a stone bench that circled the table. Because the beasts were so tall, even Mr. Murry’s feet did not touch the ground, and lanky Calvin’s long legs dangled as though he were Charles Wallace. The hall was partially enclosed by vaulted arches leading to long, paved walks. There were no empty walls, no covering roofs, so that although the light was dull in comparison to earth’s sunlight, Meg had no feeling of dark or of chill. As Aunt Beast led Meg in, Mr. Murry slid down from the bench and hurried to her, putting his arms about her tenderly.

  “They promised us you were all right,” he said.

  While she had been in Aunt Beast’s arms Meg had felt safe and secure. Now her worries about Charles Wallace and her disappointment in her father’s human fallibility rose like gorge in her throat.

  “I’m fine,” she muttered, looking not at Calvin or her father but at the beasts, for it was to them she turned now for help. It seemed to her that neither her father nor Calvin were properly concerned about Charles Wallace.

  “Meg!” Calvin said gaily. “You’ve never tasted such food in your life! Come and eat!”

  Aunt Beast lifted Meg up onto the bench and sat down beside her, then heaped a plate with food, strange fruits and breads that tasted unlike anything Meg had ever eaten. Everything was dull and colorless and unappetizing to look at, and at first, even remembering the meal Aunt Beast had fed her the night before, Meg hesitated to taste, but once she had managed the first bite she ate eagerly; it seemed that she would never have her fill again.

  The others waited until she slowed down. Then Mr. Murry said gravely, “We were trying to work out a plan to rescue Charles Wallace. Since I made such a mistake in tessering away from IT, we feel that it would not be wise for me to try to get back to Camazotz, even alone. If I missed the mark again I could easily get lost and wander forever from galaxy to galaxy, and that would be small help to anyone, least of all to Charles Wallace.”

  Such a wave of despondency came over Meg that she was no longer able to eat.

  “Our friends here,” he continued, “feel that it was only the fact that I still wore the glasses your Mrs Who gave you that kept me within this solar system. Here are the glasses, Meg. But I am afraid that the virtue has gone from them and now they are only glass. Perhaps they were meant to help only once and only on Camazotz. Perhaps it was going through the Black Thing that did it.” He pushed the glasses across the table at her.

  “These people know about tessering”—Calvin gestured at the circle of great beasts—“but they can’t do it onto a dark planet.”

  “Have you tried to call Mrs Whatsit?” Meg asked.

  “Not yet,” her father answered.

  “But if you haven’t thought of anything else, it’s the only thing to do! Father, don’t you care about Charles at all!”

  At that Aunt Beast stood up, saying, “Child,” in a reproving way. Mr. Murry said nothing, and Meg could see that she had wounded him deeply. She reacted as she would have reacted to Mr. Jenkins. She scowled down at the table, saying, “We’ve got to ask them for help now. You’re just stupid if you think we don’t.”

  Aunt Beast spoke to the others. “The child is distraught. Don’t judge her harshly. She was almost taken by the Black Thing. Sometimes we can’t know what spiritual damage it leaves even when physical recovery is complete.”

  Meg looked angrily around the table. The beasts sat there, silent, motionless. She felt that she was being measured and found wanting.

  Calvin swung away from her and hunched himself up. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that we’ve been trying to tell them about our ladies? What do you think we’ve been up to all this time? Just stuffing our faces? Okay, you have a shot at it.”

  “Yes. Try, child.” Aunt Beast seated herself again, and pulled Meg up beside her. “But I do not understand this feeling of anger I sense in you. What is it about? There is blame going on, and guilt. Why?”

  “Aunt Beast, don’t you know?”

  “No,” Aunt Beast said. “But this is not telling me about—whoever they are you want us to know. Try.”

  Meg tried. Blunderingly. Fumblingly. At first she described Mrs Whatsit and her man’s coat and multicolored shawls and scarves, Mrs Who and her white robes and shimmering spectacles, Mrs Which in her peaked cap and black gown quivering in and out of body. Then she realized that this was absurd. She was describing them only to herself. This wasn’t Mrs Whatsit or Mrs Who or Mrs Which. She might as well have described Mrs Whatsit as she was when she took on the form of a flying creature of Uriel.

  “Don’t try to use words,” Aunt Beast said soothingly. “You’re just fighting yourself and me. Think about what they are. This look doesn’t help us at all.”

  Meg tried again, but she could not get a visual concept out of her mind. She tried to think of Mrs Whatsit explaining tessering. She tried to think of them in terms of mathematics. Every once in a while she thought she felt a flicker of understanding from Aunt Beast or one of the others, but most of the time all that emanated from them was gentle puzzlement.

  “Angels!” Calvin shouted suddenly from across the table. “Guardian angels!” There was a moment’s silence, and he shouted again, his face tense with concentration, “Messengers! Messengers of God!”

  “I thought for a moment—” Aunt Beast started, then subsided, sighing. “No. It’s not clear enough.”

  “How strange it is that they can’t tell us what they themselves seem to know,” a tall, thin beast murmured.

  One of Aunt Beast’s tentacled arms went around Meg’s waist again. “They are very young. And on their earth, as they call it, they never communicate with other planets. They revolve about all alone in space.”

  “Oh,” the thin beast said. “Aren’t they lonely?”

  Suddenly a thundering voice reverberated throughout the great hall:

  “WWEEE ARRE HHERRE!”

  12

  THE FOOLISH A
ND THE WEAK

  MEG COULD SEE NOTHING, but she felt her heart pounding with hope. With one accord all the beasts rose to their feet, turned toward one of the arched openings, and bowed their heads and tentacles in greeting. Mrs Whatsit appeared, standing between two columns. Beside her came Mrs Who, behind them a quivering of light. The three of them were somehow not quite the same as they had been when Meg had first seen them. Their outlines seemed blurred; colors ran together as in a wet watercolor painting. But they were there; they were recognizable; they were themselves.

  Meg pulled herself away from Aunt Beast, jumped to the floor, and rushed at Mrs Whatsit. But Mrs Whatsit held up a warning hand and Meg realized that she was not completely materialized, that she was light and not substance, and embracing her now would have been like trying to hug a sunbeam.

  “We had to hurry, so there wasn’t quite time … You wanted us?” Mrs Whatsit asked.

  The tallest of the beasts bowed again and took a step away from the table and toward Mrs Whatsit. “It is a question of the little boy.”

  “Father left him!” Meg cried. “He left him on Camazotz!”

  Appallingly, Mrs Whatsit’s voice was cold. “And what do you expect us to do?”

  Meg pressed her knuckles against her teeth, so that her braces cut her skin. Then she flung out her arms pleadingly. “But it’s Charles Wallace! IT has him, Mrs Whatsit! Save him, please save him!”

  “You know that we can do nothing on Camazotz,” Mrs Whatsit said, her voice still cold.

  “You mean you’ll let Charles be caught by IT forever?” Meg’s voice rose shrilly.

  “Did I say that?”

  “But we can’t do anything! You know we can’t! We tried! Mrs Whatsit, you have to save him!”

  “Meg, this is not our way,” Mrs Whatsit said sadly. “I thought you would know that this is not our way.”

  Mr. Murry took a step forward and bowed, and to Meg’s amazement the three ladies bowed back to him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Mrs Whatsit said.

  “It’s Father, you know it’s Father.” Meg’s angry impatience grew. “Father—Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and Mrs Which.”

  “I’m very glad to—” Mr. Murry mumbled, then went on, “I’m sorry, my glasses are broken, and I can’t see you very well.”

  “It’s not necessary to see us,” Mrs Whatsit said.

  “If you could teach me enough more about the tesseract so that I could get back to Camazotz—”

  “Wwhatt tthenn?” came Mrs Which’s surprising voice.

  “I will try to take my child away from IT.”

  “Annd yyou kknoww tthatt yyou wwill nnott ssucceeedd?”

  “There’s nothing left except to try.”

  Mrs Whatsit spoke gently. “I’m sorry. We cannot allow you to go.”

  “Then let me,” Calvin suggested. “I almost got him away before.”

  Mrs Whatsit shook her head. “No, Calvin. Charles has gone even deeper into IT. You will not be permitted to throw yourself in with him, for that, you must realize, is what would happen.”

  There was a long silence. All the soft rays filtering into the great hall seemed to concentrate on Mrs Whatsit, Mrs Who, and the faint light that must be Mrs Which. No one spoke. One of the beasts moved a tendril slowly back and forth across the stone tabletop. At last Meg could stand it no longer and she cried out despairingly, “Then what are you going to do? Are you just going to throw Charles away?”

  Mrs Which’s voice rolled formidably across the hall. “Ssilencce, cchilldd!”

  But Meg could not be silent. She pressed closely against Aunt Beast, but Aunt Beast did not put the protecting tentacles around her. “I can’t go!” Meg cried. “I can’t! You know I can’t!”

  “Ddidd annybbodyy asskk yyou tto?” The grim voice made Meg’s skin prickle into gooseflesh.

  She burst into tears. She started beating at Aunt Beast like a small child having a tantrum. Her tears rained down her face and spattered Aunt Beast’s fur. Aunt Beast stood quietly against the assault.

  “All right, I’ll go!” Meg sobbed. “I know you want me to go!”

  “We want nothing from you that you do without grace,” Mrs Whatsit said, “or that you do without understanding.”

  Meg’s tears stopped as abruptly as they had started. “But I do understand.” She felt tired and unexpectedly peaceful. Now the coldness that, under Aunt Beast’s ministrations, had left her body had also left her mind. She looked toward her father and her confused anger was gone and she felt only love and pride. She smiled at him, asking forgiveness, and then pressed up against Aunt Beast. This time Aunt Beast’s arm went around her.

  Mrs Which’s voice was grave. “Wwhatt ddo yyou unndderrsstanndd?”

  “That it has to be me. It can’t be anyone else. I don’t understand Charles, but he understands me. I’m the one who’s closest to him. Father’s been away for so long, since Charles Wallace was a baby. They don’t know each other. And Calvin’s only known Charles for such a little time. If it had been longer, then he would have been the one, but—oh, I see, I see, I understand, it has to be me. There isn’t anyone else.”

  Mr. Murry, who had been sitting, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his fists, rose. “I will not allow it!”

  “Wwhyy?” Mrs Which demanded.

  “Look, I don’t know what or who you are, and at this point I don’t care. I will not allow my daughter to go alone into this danger.”

  “Wwhyy?”

  “You know what the outcome will probably be! And she’s weak, now, weaker than she was before. She was almost killed by the Black Thing. I fail to understand how you can even consider such a thing.”

  Calvin jumped down. “Maybe IT’s right about you! Or maybe you’re in league with IT. I’m the one to go if anybody goes! Why did you bring me along at all? To take care of Meg! You said so yourself!”

  “But you have done that,” Mrs Whatsit assured him.

  “I haven’t done anything!” Calvin shouted. “You can’t send Meg! I won’t allow it! I’ll put my foot down! I won’t permit it!”

  “Don’t you see that you’re making something that is already hard for Meg even harder?” Mrs Whatsit asked him.

  Aunt Beast turned tentacles toward Mrs Whatsit. “Is she strong enough to tesser again? You know what she has been through.”

  “If Which takes her she can manage,” Mrs Whatsit said.

  “If it will help I could go too, and hold her.” Aunt Beast’s arm around Meg tightened.

  “Oh, Aunt Beast—” Meg started.

  But Mrs Whatsit cut her off. “No.”

  “I was afraid not,” Aunt Beast said humbly. “I just wanted you to know that I would.”

  “Mrs—uh—Whatsit.” Mr. Murry frowned and pushed his hair back from his face. Then he shoved with his middle finger at his nose as though he were trying to get spectacles closer to his eyes. “Are you remembering that she is only a child?”

  “And she’s backward,” Calvin bellowed.

  “I resent that,” Meg said hotly, hoping that indignation would control her trembling. “I’m better than you at math and you know it.”

  “Do you have the courage to go alone?” Mrs Whatsit asked her.

  Meg’s voice was flat. “No. But it doesn’t matter.” She turned to her father and Calvin. “You know it’s the only thing to do. You know they’d never send me alone if—”

  “How do we know they’re not in league with IT?” Mr. Murry demanded.

  “Father!”

  “No, Meg,” Mrs Whatsit said. “I do not blame your father for being angry and suspicious and frightened. And I cannot pretend that we are doing anything but sending you into the gravest kind of danger. I have to acknowledge quite openly that it may be a fatal danger. I know this. But I do not believe it. And the Happy Medium doesn’t believe it, either.”

  “Can’t she see what’s going to happen?” Calvin asked.

  “Oh, not in this kind of thing.” Mrs Whatsit soun
ded surprised at his question. “If we knew ahead of time what was going to happen we’d be—we’d be like the people on Camazotz, with no lives of our own, with everything all planned and done for us. How can I explain it to you? Oh, I know. In your language you have a form of poetry called the sonnet.”

  “Yes, yes,” Calvin said impatiently. “What’s that got to do with the Happy Medium?”

  “Kindly pay me the courtesy of listening to me.” Mrs Whatsit’s voice was stern, and for a moment Calvin stopped pawing the ground like a nervous colt. “It is a very strict form of poetry, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are fourteen lines, I believe, all in iambic pentameter. That’s a very strict rhythm or meter, yes?”

  “Yes.” Calvin nodded.

  “And each line has to end with a rigid rhyme pattern. And if the poet does not do it exactly this way, it is not a sonnet, is it?”

  “No.”

  “But within this strict form the poet has complete freedom to say whatever he wants, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Calvin nodded again.

  “So,” Mrs Whatsit said.

  “So what?”

  “Oh, do not be stupid, boy!” Mrs Whatsit scolded. “You know perfectly well what I am driving at!”

  “You mean you’re comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?”

  “Yes,” Mrs Whatsit said. “You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.”

  “Please,” Meg said. “Please. If I’ve got to go I want to go and get it over with. Each minute you put it off makes it harder.”

  “Sshee iss rrightt,” boomed Mrs Which’s voice. “Itt iss ttime.”

  “You may say goodbye.” Mrs Whatsit was giving her not permission but a command.

  Meg curtsied clumsily to the beasts. “Thank you all. Very much. I know you saved my life.” She did not add what she could not help thinking: Saved it for what? So that IT could get me?

  She put her arms about Aunt Beast, pressed up against the soft, fragrant fur. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I love you.”

  “And I you, little one.” Aunt Beast pressed gentle tendrils against Meg’s face.