"But that's not what you're worried about."
He tried another tack. "I don't like the way Paddy O'Keefe's always after you in school."
"Paddy O'Keefe's repeated sixth grade three times. He may be good at baseball, but I'm not one of the girls who thinks the sun rises and sets on him."
"Maybe that's why he's after you." He had succeeded in deflecting her attention.
"I don't let him near me. He never washes. What does he smell like, Chuck?"
"Like a dandruffy woodchuck."
One evening after supper Beezie said, "Let's go see if the fireflies are back." It was Friday, and no school in the morning, so they could go to bed when they chose.
Chuck felt an overwhelming desire to get out of the house, away from the smell, which nearly made him retch. "Let's go."
It was still twilight when they reached the flat rock. They sat, and the stone still held the warmth of the day's sun. At first there were only occasional sparkles, but as it got darker Chuck was lost in a daze of delight as a galaxy of fireflies twinkled on and off, flinging upward in a blaze of light, dropping earthward like falling stars, moving in continuous effervescent dance.
"Oh, Beezie!" he cried. "I'm dazzled with gorgeousness."
Behind them the woods were dark with shadows. There was no moon, and a thin veil of clouds hid the stars. "If it were a clear night," Beezie remarked, "the fireflies wouldn't be as bright. I've never seen them this beautiful." She lay back on the rock, looking up at the shadowed sky, then closing her eyes. Chuck followed suit.
"Let's feel the twirling of the earth," Beezie said. "That's part of the dance the fireflies are dancing, too. Can you feel it?"
Chuck squeezed his eyelids tightly closed. He gave a little gasp. "Oh, Beezie! I felt as though the earth had tilted!" He sat up, clutching at the rock. "It made me dizzy."
She gave her bubbling little giggle. "It can be a bit scary, being part of earth and stars and fireflies and clouds and rocks. Lie down again. You won't fall off, I promise."
He leaned back, feeling the radiance soak into his body. "The rock's still warm."
"It's warm all summer, because the trees don't shade it. And there's a rock in the woods that's always cool, even on the hottest day, because the leaves are so close together that the sun's fingers never touch it."
Chuck felt a cold shadow move over him and shuddered.
"Someone walk over your grave?" Beezie asked lightly.
He jumped up. "Let's go home."
"Why? What's wrong? It's so beautiful."
"I know--but let's go home."
When they got back, everything was in confusion. Mr. Maddox had collapsed from pain, and been rushed to the hospital. The grandmother was waiting for the children.
The frightening smell had exploded over Chuck with the violence of a mighty wave as he entered.
The grandmother pulled the children to her and held them.
"But what is it? What's wrong with Pa?" Beezie asked.
"The ambulance attendant thought it was his appendix."
"But he will be all right?" she pleaded.
"Dear my love, we'll have to wait and pray."
Chuck pressed against her, quivering, not speaking. Slowly the smell was dissipating, leaving a strange emptiness in its wake.
Time seemed to stand still. Chuck would glance at the clock, thinking an hour had passed, only to find it barely a minute. After a long while Beezie fell asleep, her head in her grandmother's lap. Chuck was watchful, looking from the clock to the telephone to the door. But at length he, too, slept.
In his sleep he dreamed that he was lying on the flat rock, and feeling the swing of the earth around the sun, and suddenly the rock tilted steeply, and he was sliding off, and he scrabbled in terror to keep from falling off the precipice into a sea of darkness. He cried out, "Rocks--steep--" and the grandmother put her hand on the rock and steadied it and he stopped dreaming.
But when he woke up he knew that his father was dead.
NINE
The rocks with their steepness
The sudden shrilling of the telephone woke Meg with a jolt of terror. Her heart began to thud, and she pushed out of bed, hardly aware of Ananda. Her feet half in and half out of her slippers, one arm shoved into her robe, she stumbled downstairs and into her parents' bedroom, but they were not there, so she hurried on down to the kitchen.
Her father was on the phone, and she heard him saying, "Very well, Mrs. O'Keefe. One of us will be right over for you."
It was not the president.
But Mrs. O'Keefe? In the middle of the night?
The twins, too, were in the doorway.
"What was that about?" Mrs. Murry asked.
"As you gathered, it was Mrs. O'Keefe."
"At this time of night!" Sandy exclaimed.
"She's never called us before," Dennys said, "at any time."
Meg breathed a sigh of relief. "At least it wasn't the president. What did she want?"
"She said she's found something she wants me to see, and ordered me to go for her at once."
"I'll go," Sandy said. "You can't leave the phone, Dad."
"You've got the weirdest mother-in-law in the world," Dennys told Meg.
Mrs. Murry opened the oven door and the fragrance of hot bread wafted out. "How about some bread and butter?"
"Meg, put your bathrobe on properly," Dennys ordered.
"Yes, doc." She put her left arm into the sleeve and tied the belt. If she stayed in the kitchen with the family, then time would pass with its normal inevitability. The kythe which had been broken by the jangling of the telephone was lost somewhere in her unconscious mind. She hated alarm clocks, because they woke her so abruptly out of sleep that she forgot her dreams.
In the kything was something to do with Mrs. O'Keefe. But what? She searched her mind. Fireflies. Something to do with fireflies. And a girl and a boy, and the smell of fear. She shook her head.
"What's the matter, Meg?" her mother asked.
"Nothing. I'm trying to remember something."
"Sit down. A warm drink won't hurt you."
It was important that she see Mrs. O'Keefe, but she couldn't remember why, because the kythe was gone.
"I'll be right back," Sandy assured them, and went out the pantry door.
"What on earth ..." Dennys said. "Mrs. O'Keefe is beyond me. I'm glad I'm not going in for psychiatry."
Their mother set a plateful of fragrant bread on the table, then turned to put the kettle on. "Look!"
Meg followed her gaze. Coming into the kitchen were the kitten and Ananda, single file, the kitten with its tail straight up in the air, mincing along as though leading the big dog, whose massive tail was wagging wildly. They all laughed, and the laughter froze as the two creatures came past the table with the telephone. Twice since the president's call the phone had rung, first Calvin, then his mother. When would it ring again, and who would call?
It surprised Meg that the warm bread tasted marvelous, and the tea warmed her, and she was able, at least for the moment, to relax. Ananda whined beseechingly, and Meg gave her a small piece of toast.
Outside came the sound of a car, the slamming of a door, and then Sandy came in with Mrs. O'Keefe. The old woman had cobwebs in her hair, and smudges of dirt on her face. In her hand she held some scraps of paper.
"Something in me told me to go to the attic," she announced triumphantly. "That name--Mad Dog Branzillo--it rang a bell in me."
Meg looked at her mother-in-law and suddenly the kythe flooded back. "Beezie!" She cried.
Mrs. O'Keefe lunged toward her as though to strike her. "What's that?"
Meg caught the old woman's hands. "Beezie, Mom. You used to be called Beezie."
"How'd you know?" the old woman demanded fiercely. "You couldn't know! Nobody's called me Beezie since Chuck."
Tears filled Meg's eyes. "Oh, Beezie, Beezie, I'm so sorry."
The family looked at her in astonishment. Mr. Murry asked, "What is this, Meg?"
&
nbsp; Still holding her mother-in-law's hands, Meg replied, "Mrs. O'Keefe used to be called Beezie when she was a girl. Didn't you, Mom?"
"It's best forgotten," the old woman said heavily.
"And you called Charles Wallace Chuck," Meg persisted, "and Chuck was your little brother and you loved him very much."
"I want to sit down," Mrs. O'Keefe said. "Leave the past be. I want to show you something." She handed a yellowed envelope to Mr. Murry. "Look at that."
Mr. Murry pushed his glasses up his nose. "It's a letter from a Bran Maddox in Vespugia to a Matthew Maddox right here."
The twins looked at each other. Sandy said, "We were just talking about Matthew Maddox tonight when we were looking something up for Meg. He was a nineteenth-century novelist. Is there a date on the letter?"
Mr. Murry carefully drew a yellowed sheet of paper from the old envelope. "November 1865."
"So the Matthew Maddox could be the one whose book Dennys studied in college!"
"Let Father read the letter," Dennys stopped his twin.
My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. Is there snow at home? I am settling in well with the group from Wales, and feel that I have known most of them all our lives. What an adventure this is, to start a colony in this arid country where the children can be taught Welsh in school, and where we can sing together as we work.
The strangest thing of all is that our family legend was here to meet me. Papa and Dr. Llawcae will be wild with excitement. We grew up on the legend of Madoc leaving Wales and coming to the New World, the way other children grew up on George Washington and the cherry tree. Believe it or not--but I know you'll believe it, because it's absolutely true--there is an Indian here with blue eyes who says he is descended from a Welsh prince who came to America long before any other white men. He does not know how his forebears got to South America, but he swears that his mother sang songs to him about being the blue-eyed descendant of a Welsh prince. He is called Gedder, though that is not his real name. His mother died when he and his sister were small, and they were brought up by an English sheep rancher who couldn't pronounce his Welsh name, and called him Gedder. And his sister's name--that is perhaps the most amazing of all: Zillie. She does not have the blue eyes, but she is quite beautiful, with very fine features, and shining straight black hair, which she wears in a long braid. She reminds me of my beloved Zillah.
Gedder has been extraordinarily helpful in many ways, though he has a good deal of arrogance and a tendency to want to be the leader which has already caused trouble in this community where no man is expected to set himself above his brothers.
But how wonderful that the old legend should be here to greet me! As for our sister Gwen, she shrugs and says, "What difference does a silly old story make?" She is determined not to like it here, though she's obviously pleased when all the young men follow her around.
Has Dr. Llawcae decided to let Zillah come and join me in the spring? The other women would welcome her, and she would be a touch of home for Gwen. I'm happy here, Matthew, and I know that Zillah would be happy with me, as my wife and life's companion. Women are not looked down on here--Gwen has to admit that much. Perhaps you could come, and bring Zillah with you? The community is settled enough so that I think we could take care of you, and this dry climate would be better for you than the dampness at home. Please come, I need you both.
Your affectionate brother,
Bran
Mr. Murry stopped. "It's very interesting, Mrs. O'Keefe, but why is it so important for me to see it?"--that you called in the middle of the night, he seemed to be adding silently.
"Don't you see?"
"No, sorry."
"Thought you was supposed to be so brilliant."
Mrs. Murry said, "The letter was mailed from Vespugia. That's strange enough, that you should have a letter which was mailed from Vespugia."
"Right," the old woman said triumphantly.
Mr. Murry asked, "Where did you find this letter, Mrs. O'Keefe?"
"Told you. In the attic."
"And your maiden name was Maddox." Meg smiled at the old woman. "So they were forebears of yours, this Bran Maddox, and his brother, Matthew, and his sister, Gwen."
She nodded. "Yes, and likely his girlfriend, Zillah, too. Maddoxes and Llawcaes in my family all the way back."
Dennys looked at his sister's mother-in-law with new respect. "Sandy was looking up about Vespugia tonight, and he told us about a Welsh colony in Vespugia in 1865. So one of your ancestors went to join it?"
"Looks like it, don't it? And that Branzillo, he's from Vespugia."
Mr. Murry said, "It's a remarkable coincidence--" He stopped as his wife glanced at him. "I still don't see how it can have any connection with Branzillo, or what it would mean if it did."
"Don't you?" Mrs. O'Keefe demanded.
"Please tell us," Mrs. Murry suggested gently.
"The names. Bran. Zillah. Zillie. Put them together and they aren't far from Branzillo."
Mrs. Murry looked at her with surprised admiration. "How amazing!"
Mr. Murry asked, "Are there other letters?"
"Were. Once."
"Where are they?"
"Gone. Went to look. Began thinking about this Branzillo when I went home. Remembered Chuck and me--"
"Chuck and you what, Mom?" Meg probed.
Mrs. O'Keefe pushed her cobwebby hair away from her eyes. "We used to read the letters. Made up stories about Bran and Zillah and all. Played games of Let's Pretend. Then, when Chuck--didn't have the heart for Let's Pretend any more, forgot it all. Made myself forget. But that name, Branzillo, struck me. Bran. Zillah. Peculiar."
Mr. Murry looked bemusedly at the yellowed paper. "Peculiar, indeed."
"Where's your little boy?" Mrs. O'Keefe demanded.
Mr. Murry looked at his watch. "He went for a walk."
"When?"
"About an hour ago."
"In the middle of the night, and at his age?"
"He's fifteen."
"No. Twelve. Chuck was twelve."
"Charles Wallace is fifteen, Mrs. O'Keefe."
"A runt, then."
"Give him time."
"And you don't take care of him. Chuck needs special care. And people criticize me for not taking care of my kids!"
Dennys, too, looked at his watch. "Want me to go after him, Dad?"
Mr. Murry shook his head. "No. I think we have to trust Charles Wallace tonight. Mrs. O'Keefe, you'll stay awhile?"
"Yes. Need to see Chuck."
Meg said, "Please excuse me, everybody. I want to go back to bed." She tried to keep the urgency from her voice. She felt a panicky need to get back to the attic with Ananda. "Chuck was twelve," Mrs. O'Keefe had said. Chuck was twelve when what? Anything that happened to Chuck was happening to Charles Wallace.
Mrs. Murry suggested, "Would you like to take a cup of tea with you?"
"No, thanks, I'm fine. Someone call me when Charles gets in?"
Ananda followed her upstairs, contentedly licking her lips for the last buttery crumbs.
The attic felt cold and she got quickly into bed and wrapped the quilt around herself and the dog.--Charles Wallace wanted me to find a connection between Wales and Vespugia, and Dennys found one in his reference books. But it's a much closer connection than that. The letter Mrs. O'Keefe brought was from 1865, and from Vespugia, so the connection is as close as her attic.
Despite the warm glow of the electric heater, she shivered.
--Those people in the letter must be important, she thought,--and the Bran who wrote the letter, and his sister Gwen. Certainly the name Zillie must have some connection with Madoc's Zyll, and Ritchie Llawcae's Zylle, who was nearly burned for witchcraft.
--And then, the Matthew he wrote to must be the Matthew Maddox who wrote the books. There's something in that second book that matters, and the Echthroi don't want us to know about it. It's all interconnected, and we still don't know what the connections
mean.
--And what happened to Beezie, that she should end up as Mom O'Keefe? Oh, Ananda, Ananda, whatever happened?
She lay back against the pillows and rubbed her hand slowly back and forth over the dog's soft fur, until the tingling warmth moved up her arm and all through her.
"But why Pa?" Beezie demanded over and over again. "Why did Pa have to die?"
"There's never an answer to that question, my Beezie," the grandmother replied patiently. "It's not a question to be asking."
"But I do ask it!"
The grandmother looked tired, and old. Chuck had never before thought of her as old, as being any age at all. She was simply Grandma, always there for them. Now she asked, not the children, but the heavens, "And why my Patrick, and him even younger than your father. Why anything?" A tear slid down her cheek, and Beezie and Chuck put their arms around her to comfort her.
Mrs. Maddox went over the ledgers so patiently kept up to date by her husband. The more she looked, the more slowly her hands turned the pages. "I knew it was bad, but I didn't know it was this bad. I should have realized when he sold Matthew Maddox's book ..."
Chuck crawled up into the dark storage spaces under the eaves, looking for treasure. He found a bottle full of pennies, but no gold or jewels to give his mother. He found an old Encyclopaedia Britannica, the pages yellow, the bindings cracked, but still useful. He found a set of china wrapped in old newspapers dated long before he and Beezie were born, which he hoped they might be able to sell. He found a strongbox, locked.
He brought his findings to the living room. His mother was in the store, but Beezie and the grandmother were there, doing the week's baking.
"The pennies are old. They may be worth something. The china's good. It may pay for our fuel for a month or so. What's in the box?"
"There isn't a key. I'm going to break it." He took hammer and screwdriver and wrench, and the old lock gave way and he was able to lift the lid. In the box was a sheaf of letters and a large notebook with a crumbling blue leather binding. He opened the book to the first page, and there was a watercolor sketch, faded only slightly, of the spring countryside.
"Grandma! It's our rock, our picnic rock!"
The old woman clucked. "And so it is."
The rock was shaded in soft blues and lavenders merging into grey. Behind it the trees were lush with spring green. Above it flew a flock of butterflies, the soft blues of the spring azures complemented by the gold and black of the tiger swallowtails. Around the rock were the familiar spring flowers, dappling the grass like the background of a tapestry.
A Swiftly Tilting Planet Page 14
