A Swiftly Tilting Planet
Madeleine L'Engle
i Copyright ©1978 by Crosswicks, Ltd.
All rights reserved
Third printing, 1979
Printed in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada by
McGraw-Hill Ryerson Ltd., Toronto
Designed by Suzanne Haldane
Library of Congress Cataloging
in Publication Data
L'Engle, Madeleine.
A swiftly tilting planet.
summary: The youngest of the Murry children must
travel through time and space in a battle against an
evil dictator who would destroy the entire universe.
[i. Science fiction] I. Title.
[Fie]7^-9648ISBN 0-374-37362-0
ii for Hal Varsell
1 Contents
1 In this fateful hour3
2 All Heaven with its power29
3 The sun with its brightness48
4 The snow with its whiteness67
5 The fire with all the strength it hath87
6 The lightning with its rapid wrath107
7 The winds with their swiftness149
8 The sea with its deepness159
9 The rocks with their steepness187
10 The earth with its starkness210
11 All these I place227
12 Between myself and the powers of
darkness268
2 A Swiftly Tilting Planet
3 
The big kitchen of the Murrys' house was bright and warm, curtains drawn against 
the dark outside, against the rain driving past the house from the northeast. 
Meg Murry O'Keefe had made an arrangement of chrysanthemums for the dining 
table, and the yellow, bronze, and pale-gold blossoms seemed to add light to the 
room. A delectable smell of roasting turkey came from the oven, and her mother 
stood by the stove, stirring the giblet gravy.
It was good to be home for Thanksgiving, she thought, to be with the reunited 
family, catching up on what each one had been doing. The twins, Sandy and 
Dennys, home
4 
from law and medical schools, were eager to hear about Calvin, her husband, and 
the conference he was attending in London, where he was-perhaps at this very 
minute-giving a paper on the immunological system of chordates.
"It's a tremendous honor for him, isn't it, Sis?" Sandy asked.
"Enormous."
"And how about you, Mrs. O'Keefe?" Dennys smiled at her. "Still seems strange to 
call you Mrs. O'Keefe."
"Strange to me, too." Meg looked over at the rocker by the fireplace, where her 
mother-in-law was sitting, staring into the flames; she was the one who was Mrs. 
O'Keefe to Meg. "I'm fine," she replied to Sandy. "Absolutely fine."
Dennys, already very much the doctor, had taken his stethoscope, of which he was 
enormously proud, and put it against Meg's burgeoning belly, beaming with 
pleasure as he heard the strong heartbeat of the baby within. "You are fine, 
indeed."
She returned the smile, then looked across the room to her youngest brother, 
Charles Wallace, and to their father, who were deep in concentration, bent over 
the model they were building of a tesseract: the square squared, and squared 
again: a construction of the dimension of time. It was a beautiful and 
complicated creation of steel wires and ball bearings and Lucite, parts of it 
revolving, parts swinging like pendulums.
Charles Wallace was small for his fifteen years; a stranger might have guessed 
him to be no more than twelve; but the expression in his light blue eyes as he
5 5
watched his father alter one small rod on the model was mature and highly 
intelligent. He had been silent all day, she thought. He seldom talked much, but 
his silence on this Thanksgiving day, as the approaching storm moaned around the 
house and clapped the shingles on the roof, was different from his usual lack of 
chatter.
Meg's mother-in-law was also silent, but that was not surprising. What was 
surprising was that she had agreed to come to them for Thanksgiving dinner. Mrs. 
O'Keefe must have been no more than a few years older than Mrs. Murry, but she 
looked like an old woman. She had lost most of her teeth, and her hair was 
yellowish and unkempt, and looked as if it had been cut with a blunt knife. Her 
habitual expression was one of resentment. Life had not been kind to her, and 
she was angry with the world, especially with the Murrys. They had not expected 
her to accept the invitation, particularly with Calvin in London. None of 
Calvin's family responded to the Murrys' friendly overtures. Calvin was, as he 
had explained to Meg at their first meeting, a biological sport, totally 
different from the rest of his family, and when he received his M.D./Ph.D. they 
took that as a sign that he had joined the ranks of the enemy. And Mrs. O'Keefe 
shared the attitude of many of the villagers that Mrs. Murry's two earned 
Ph.D.s, and her experiments in the stone lab which adjoined the kitchen, did not 
constitute proper work. Because she had achieved considerable recognition, her 
puttering was tolerated, but it was not work, in the sense that keeping a clean 
house was work, or having a nine-to-five job in factory or office was work.
6 
-How could that woman have produced my husband? Meg wondered for the hundredth 
time, and imaged Calvin's alert expression and open smile. -Mother says there's 
more to her than meets the eye, but I haven't seen it yet. All I know is that 
she doesn't like me, or any of the family. I don't know why she came for dinner. 
I wish she hadn't.
The twins had automatically taken over their old job of setting the table. Sandy 
paused, a handful of forks in his hand, to grin at their mother. "Thanksgiving 
dinner is practically the only meal Mother cooks in the kitchen-"
"-instead of out in the lab on her Bunsen burner," Dennys concluded.
Sandy patted her shoulder affectionately. "Not that we're criticizing, Mother."
. "After all, those Bunsen-burner stews did lead directly to the Nobel Prize. 
We're really very proud of you, Mother, although you and Father give us a heck 
of a lot to live up to."
"Keeps our standards high." Sandy took a pile of plates from the kitchen 
dresser, counted them, and set them in front of the big platter which would hold 
the turkey.
-Home, Meg thought comfortably, and regarded her parents and brothers with 
affectionate gratitude. They had put up with her all through her prickly 
adolescence, and she still did not feel very grown up. It seemed only a few 
months ago that she had had braces on her teeth, crooked spectacles that 
constantly slipped down her nose, unruly mouse-brown hair, and a wistful 
certainty that she would never grow up to be a beautiful and self-confident
7 7
woman like her mother. Her inner vision of herself was still more the adolescent 
Meg than the attractive young woman she had become. The braces were gone, the 
spectacles replaced by contact lenses, and though her chestnut hair might not 
quite rival her mother's rich auburn, it was thick and lustrous and became her 
perfectly, pulled softly back from her face into a knot at the nape of her 
slender neck. When she looked at herself objectively in the mirror she knew that 
she was lovely, but she was not yet accustomed to the fact. It was hard to 
believe that her mother had once gone through the same transition.
She wondered if Charles Wallace would change physically as much as she had. All 
his outward development had been slow. Their parents thought he might make a 
sudden spurt in growth.
She missed Charles Wallace more than she missed the twins or her parents. The 
eldest and the youngest in the family, their rapport had always been deep, and 
Charles Wallace had an intuitive sense of Meg's needs which could not be 
accounted for logically; if something in Meg's world was wrong, he knew, and was 
there to be with her, to help her if only by assuring her of his love and trust. 
She felt a deep sense of comfort in being with him for this Thanksgiving 
weekend, in being home. Her parents' house was still home, because she and 
Calvin spent many weekends there, and their apartment near Calvin's hospital was 
a small, furnished one, with a large sign saying no pets, and an aura that 
indicated that children would not be welcomed, either. They hoped to be
8 
able to look for a place of their own soon. Meanwhile, she was home for 
Thanksgiving, and it was good to see the gathered family and to be surrounded by 
their love, which helped ease her loneliness at being separated from Calvin for 
the first time since their marriage.
"I miss Fortinbras," she said suddenly.
Her mother turned from the stove. "Yes. The house feels empty without a dog. But 
Fort died of honorable old age."
"Aren't you going to get another dog?"
"Eventually. The right one hasn't turned up yet."
"Couldn't you go look for a dog?"
Mr. Murry looked up from the tesseract. "Our dogs usually come to us. If one 
doesn't, in good time, then we'll do something about it."
"Meg," her mother suggested, "how about making the hard sauce for the plum 
pudding?"
"Oh-of course." She opened the refrigerator and got out half a pound of butter.
The phone rang.
"I'll get it." Dropping the butter into a small mixing bowl en route, she went 
to the telephone. "Father, it's for you. I think it's the White House."
Mr. Murry went quickly to the phone. "Mr. President, hello!" He was smiling, and 
Meg watched as the smile was wiped from his face and replaced with an expression 
of-what? Nothingness, she thought.
The twins stopped talking. Mrs. Murry stood, her wooden spoon resting against 
the lip of the saucepan. Mrs. O'Keefe continued to stare morosely into the fire.
9 g
Charles Wallace appeared to be concentrating on the tesseract.
-Father is just listening, Meg thought. -The President is doing the talking.
She gave an involuntary shudder. One minute the room had been noisy with eager 
conversation, and suddenly they were all silent, their movements arrested. She 
listened, intently, while her father continued to hold the phone to his ear. His 
face looked grim, all the laughter lines deepening to sternness. Rain lashed 
against the windows. -It ought to snow at this time of year, Meg thought. 
-There's something wrong with the weather. There's something wrong.
Mr. Murry continued to listen silently, and his silence spread across the room. 
Sandy had been opening the oven door to baste the turkey and snitch a spoonful 
of stuffing, and he stood still, partly bent over, looking at his father. Mrs. 
Murry turned slightly from the stove and brushed one hand across her hair, which 
was beginning to be touched with silver at the temples. Meg had opened the 
drawer for the beater, which she held tightly.
It was not unusual for Mr. Murry to receive a call from the President. Over the 
years he had been consulted by the White House on matters of physics and space 
travel; other conversations had been serious, many disturbing, but this, Meg 
felt, was different, was causing the warm room to feel colder, look less bright.
"Yes, Mr. President, I understand," Mr. Murry said at last. "Thank you for 
calling." He put the receiver down slowly, as though it were heavy.
10 
Dennys, his hands still full of silver for the table, asked, "What did he say?"
Their father shook his head. He did not speak.
Sandy closed the oven door. "Father?"
Meg cried, "Father, we know something's happened. You have to tell us-please."
His voice was cold and distant. "War."
Meg put her hand protectively over her belly. "Do you mean nuclear war?"
The family seemed to draw together, and Mrs. Murry reached out a hand to include 
Calvin's mother. But Mrs. O'Keefe closed her eyes and excluded herself.
"Is it Mad Dog Branzillo?" asked Meg.
"Yes. The President feels that this time Branzillo is going to carry out his 
threat, and then we'll have no choice but to use our antiballistic missiles."
"How would a country that small get a missile?" Sandy asked.
"Vespugia is no smaller than Israel, and Branzillo has powerful friends."
"He really can carry out this threat?"
Mr. Murry assented.
"Is there a red alert?" Sandy asked.
"Yes. The President says we have twenty-four hours in which to try to avert 
tragedy, but I have never heard him sound so hopeless. And he does not give up 
easily."
The blood drained from Meg's face. "That means the end of everything, the end of 
the world." She looked toward Charles Wallace, but he appeared almost as 
withdrawn as Mrs. O'Keefe. Charles Wallace, who was always
11 
there for her, was not there now. And Calvin was an ocean away. With a feeling 
of terror she turned back to her father.
He did not deny her words.
The old woman by the fireplace opened her eyes and twisted her thin lips 
scornfully. "What's all this? Why would the President of the United States call 
here? You playing some kind of joke on me?" The fear in her eyes belied her 
words.
"It's no joke, Mrs. O'Keefe," Mrs. Murry explained. "For a number of years the 
White House has been in the habit of consulting my husband."
"I didn't know he"-Mrs. O'Keefe darted a dark glance at Mr. Murry-"was a 
politician."
"He's not. He's a physicist. But the President needs scientific information and 
needs it from someone he can trust, someone who has no pet projects to fund or 
political positions to support. My husband has become especially close to the 
new President." She stirred the gravy, then stretched her hands out to her 
husband in supplication. "But why? Why? When we all know that no one can win a 
nuclear war."
Charles Wallace turned from the tesseract. "El Rabioso. That's his nickname. Mad 
Dog Branzillo."
"El Rabioso seems singularly appropriate for a man who overthrew the democratic 
government with a wild and bloody coup d'etat. He is mad, indeed, and there is 
no reason in him."
"One madman in Vespugia," Dennys said bitterly, "can push a button and it will 
destroy civilization, and every-
12 
thing Mother and Father have worked for will go up in a mushroom cloud. Why 
couldn't the President make him see reason?"
Sandy fed a fresh log onto the fire, as though taking hope from the warmth and 
light.
Dennys continued, "If Branzillo does this, sends missiles, it could destroy the 
entire human race-"
Sandy scowled ferociously. "-which might not be so bad-"
"-and even if a few people survive in sparsely inhabited mountains and deserts, 
there'd be so much fallout all over the planet that their children would be 
mutants. Why couldn't the President make him see? Nobody wants war at that 
price."
"It's not for lack of trying," Mr. Murry said, "but El Rabioso deserves his 
nickname. If he has to fall, he'd just as soon take the human race with him."
"So they send missiles from Vespugia, and we return ours to them, and all for 
what?" Sandy's voice cracked with anger.
"El Rabioso sees this as an act of punishment, of just retribution. The Western 
world has used up more than our share of the world's energy, the world's 
resources, and we must be punished," Mr. Murry said. "We are responsible for the 
acutely serious oil and coal shortage, the defoliation of trees, the grave 
damage to the atmosphere, and he is going to make us pay."
"We stand accused," Sandy said, "but if he makes us pay, Vespugia will pay just 
as high a price."
Mrs. O'Keefe stretched her wrinkled hands out to the
13 
flames. "At Tara in this fateful hour . . ." she mumbled.
Meg looked at her mother-in-law questioningly, but the old woman turned away. 
Meg said to the room at large, "I know it's selfish, but I wish Calvin weren't 
in London giving that paper. I wish I'd gone with him."
"I know, love," Mrs. Murry replied, "but Dr. Louise thought you should stay 
here."
"I wish I could at least phone him . . ."
Charles Wallace moved out of his withdrawn silence to say, "It hasn't happened 
yet, nuclear war. No missiles have been sent. As long as it hasn't happened, 
there's a chance that it may not happen."
A faint flicker of hope moved across Meg's face. -Would it be better, she 
wondered, -if we were like the rest of the world and didn't know the horrible 
possibility of our lives being snuffed out before another sun rises? How do we 
prepare?
". . . in this fateful hour," the old woman mumbled again, but turned her head 
away when the Murrys looked at her.
Charles Wallace spoke calmly to the whole family, but looked at Meg. "It's 
Thanksgiving, and except for Calvin, we're all together, and Calvin's mother is 
with us, and that's important, and we all know where Calvin's heart is; it's 
right here."
"England doesn't observe Thanksgiving," Sandy remarked.
"But we do." His father's voice was resolute. "Finish setting the table, please. 
Dennys, will you fill the glasses?"
14 14A Swiftly Tilting Planet
While Mr. Murry carved, and Mrs. Murry thickened the gravy, Meg finished beating 
the hard sauce, and the twins and Charles Wallace carried bowls of rice, 
stuffing, vegetables, cranberry sauce, to the table. Mrs. O'Keefe did not move 
to help. She looked at her work-worn hands, then dropped them into her lap. "At 
Tara in this fateful hour . . ."
This time nobody heard her.
Sandy, trying to joke, said, "Remember the time Mother tried to make oatmeal 
cookies over the Bunsen burner, in a frying pan?"
"They were edible," Dennys said.
"Almost anything is, to your appetite."
"Which, despite everything, is enormous."
"And it's time to go to the table," Mrs. Murry said.
When they were in their places she automatically held out her hands, and then 
the family, with Mrs. O'Keefe between Mr. Murry and Meg, was linked around the 
table.
Charles Wallace suggested, "Let's sing Dona nobis pacem. It's what we're all 
praying for."
"Sandy'd better start then," Meg said. "He's got the best voice. And then Dennys 
and Mother, and then Father and you and I."
They raised their voices in the old round, singing over and over, Give us peace, 
give us peace, give us peace.
Meg's voice trembled, but she managed to sing through to the end.
There was silence as the plates were served, silence instead of the usual happy 
noise of conversation.
15 15
"Strange," Mr. Murry said, "that the ultimate threat should come from a South 
American dictator in an almost unknown little country. White meat for you, Meg?"
"Dark, too, please. Isn't it ironic that all this should be happening on 
Thanksgiving?"
Mrs. Murry said, "I remember my mother telling me about one spring, many years 
ago now, when relations between the United States and the Soviet Union were so 
tense that all the experts predicted nuclear war before the summer was over. 
They weren't alarmists or pessimists; it was a considered, sober judgment. And 
Mother said that she walked along the lane wondering if the pussy willows would 
ever bud again. After that, she waited each spring for the pussy willows, 
remembering, and never took their budding for granted again."
Her husband nodded. "There was a reprieve then. There may be again."
"But is it likely?" Sandy's brown eyes were sober.
"It wasn't likely then. The pussy willows, nevertheless, have budded for a good 
many springs." He passed cranberry sauce to Mrs. O'Keefe.
"In this fateful hour," she mumbled, and waved the sauce away.
He bent toward her. "What was that?"
"At Tara in this fateful hour," she said irritably. "Can't remember. Important. 
Don't you know it?"
"I'm afraid not. What is it?"
"Rune. Rune. Patrick's rune. Need it now."
Calvin's mother had always been taciturn. At home she had communicated largely 
in grunts. Her children, with
16 
the exception of Calvin, had been slow to speak, because they seldom heard a 
complete sentence until they went to school. "My grandmother from Ireland." Mrs. 
O'Keefe pointed at Charles Wallace and knocked over her glass.
Dennys fetched paper towels and mopped up the spilled liquid. "I suppose, 
cosmically speaking, it doesn't make much difference whether or not our 
second-rate little planet blows itself up."
"Dennys!" Meg cried, then turned to her mother. "Excuse me for using this as an 
example, but Den, remember when Mother isolated farandolae within a 
mitochondrion?"
He interrupted, "Of course I remember. That's what she got the Nobel Prize for."
Mrs. Murry held up her hand. "Let Meg speak."
"Okay then: farandolae are so minuscule and insignificant it doesn't seem they 
could possibly have any importance, and yet they live in a symbiotic 
relationship with mitochondria-"
"Okay, gotcha. And mitochondria provide us with our energy, so if anything 
affects our farandolae, that can affect our mitochondria-"
"And," Meg concluded, "if that happens, we could die from energy loss, as you 
well know."
"Go on," Sandy said.
"So if we blow up our planet it would certainly have some small effect on our 
solar system, and that could affect our galaxy, and that could . . ."
"The old chain-reaction theory?" Sandy asked.
17 
"More than that. Interdependence. Not just one thing leading to another in a 
straight line, but everything and everyone everywhere interreacting."
Dennys threw out the wet paper towels, put a clean napkin over the soiled 
tablecloth, and refilled Mrs. O'Keefe's glass. Despite storm windows, the drawn 
curtains stirred and a draft moved across the room. Heavy drops of rain 
spattered down the chimney, making the fire hiss. "I still think," he said, 
"that you're overestimating the importance of this planet. We've made a mess of 
things. Maybe it's best we get blown up."
"Dennys, you're a doctor," Meg reprimanded.
"Not yet," Sandy said.
"But he's going to be! He's supposed to care about and guard life."
"Sorry, Sis," Dennys said swiftly.
"It's just his way of whistling in the dark." Sandy helped himself to rice and 
gravy, then raised his glass to his sister. "Might as well go out on a full 
stomach."
"I mean it and I don't mean it," Dennys said. "I do think we've got our 
priorities wrong, we human beings. We've forgotten what's worth saving and 
what's not, or we wouldn't be in this mess."
"Mean, don't mean," Mrs. O'Keefe grunted. "Never understand what you people are 
going on about. Even you." And again she pointed at Charles Wallace, though this 
time she did not overturn her glass.
Sandy glanced across the table at his baby brother, who looked pale and small. 
"Charles, you've eaten hardly anything, and you're not talking."
18 
Charles Wallace replied, looking not at Sandy but at his sister, "I'm 
listening."
She pricked up her ears. "To what?"
He shook his head so slightly that only she saw; and stopped questioning.
"At Tara in this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power!" Mrs. O'Keefe 
pointed at Charles and knocked over her glass again.
This time nobody moved to mop up.
"My grandma from Ireland. She taught me. Set great store on it. I place all 
Heaven with its power . . ." Her words dribbled off.
Mrs. O'Keefe's children called her Mom. From everybody except Calvin it sounded 
like an insult. Meg found it difficult to call her mother-in-law anything, but 
now she pushed her chair away from the table and knelt by the old woman. "Mom," 
she said gently, "what did your grandmother teach you?"
"Set great store on it to ward off the dark."
"But what?"
"... All Heaven with its power" Mrs. O'Keefe said in a singsong way,
"And the sun with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire 
with all the strength it hath-"
At that moment it seemed as though a bucketful of water had been dumped down the 
chimney onto the fire. The flames flickered wildly, and gusts of smoke blew into 
the room.
19 
"The fire with all the strength it hath," Charles Wallace repeated firmly.
The applewood logs sizzled but the flames gathered strength and began to burn 
brightly again.
Mrs. O'Keefe put a gnarled hand on Meg's shoulder and pressed down heavily as 
though it helped her to remember.
"And the-the lightning with its rapid wrath, And the winds with their swiftness 
along their path-"
The wind gave a tremendous gust, and the house shook under the impact, but stood 
steady.
Mrs. O'Keefe pressed until Meg could barely stand the weight.
"And the sea with its deepness, And the rocks with their steepness, And the 
earth with its starkness-"
Using Meg's shoulder as a lever, she pushed herself up and stood facing the 
bright flames in the fireplace.
"All these I place By God's almighty help and grace Between myself and the 
powers of darkness."
Her voice rose triumphantly. "That'll teach Mad Dog Bran-what's-his name."
The twins looked at each other as though embarrassed. Mr. Murry carved some more 
turkey. Mrs. Murry's face was serene and uncommunicative. Charles Wallace looked 
thoughtfully at Mrs. O'Keefe. Meg rose from her knees and returned to her chair, 
escaping the unbeliev-
20 
ably heavy pressure of her mother-in-law's hand. She was sure that her shoulder 
was going to hold black and blue finger marks.
As Meg moved away, Mrs. O'Keefe seemed to crumple. She collapsed into her chair. 
"Set high store on that, my grandma did. Haven't thought of it in years. Tried 
not to think. So why'd it come to me tonight?" She gasped, as though exhausted.
"It's something like Patrick's Breastplate," Sandy said. "We sang that in glee 
club in college. It was one of my favorites. Marvelous harmonies."
"Not a song," Mrs. O'Keefe contradicted. "A rune. Patrick's rune. To hold up 
against danger. In this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power-"
Without warning, the lights went out. A gust of wind dashed across the table, 
blowing out the candles. The humming of the refrigerator ceased. There was no 
purring from the furnace in the cellar. A cold dampness clutched the room, 
filling their nostrils with a stench of decay. The flames in the fireplace 
dwindled.
"Say it, Mom!" Charles Wallace called. "Say it all!"
Mrs. O'Keefe's voice was weak. "I forget-"
The lightning outside was so brilliant that light penetrated the closed 
curtains. A tremendous crash of thunder followed immediately.
"I'll say it with you." Charles Wallace's voice was urgent. "But you'll have to 
help me. Come on. In this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power . . ."
Lightning and thunder were almost simultaneous. Then they heard a gigantic 
crackling noise.
21 
"One of the trees has been struck," Mr. Murry said.
"All Heaven with its power," Charles Wallace repeated.
The old woman's voice took up the words. "And the sun with its brightness . . ."
Dennys struck a match and lit the candles. At first the flames flickered and 
guttered wildly, but then steadied and burned straight and bright.
"And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire with all the strength it hath And 
the lightning with its rapid wrath . . ."
Meg waited for the lightning to flash again, for the house itself to be struck. 
Instead, the power came back on as abruptly as it had gone off. The furnace 
began to hum. The room was filled with light and warmth.
". . . And the sea with its deepness, And the rocks with their steepness, And 
the earth with its starkness, All these I place
By God's almighty help and grace Between myself and the powers of darkness."
Charles Wallace lifted the curtains away from one corner of the window. "The 
rain's turned to snow. The ground's all white and beautiful."
"All right-" Sandy looked around the room. "What's this all about? I know 
something's happened, but what?"
For a moment no one spoke. Then Meg said, "Maybe there's hope."
22 22A Swiftly Tilting Planet
Sandy waved her words away. "Really, Meg, be reasonable."
"Why? We don't live in a reasonable world. Nuclear war is not reasonable. Reason 
hasn't got us anywhere."
"But you can't throw it out. Branzillo is mad and there's no reason in him."
Dennys said, "Okay, Sandy, I agree with you. But what happened?"
Meg glanced at Charles Wallace, but he had his withdrawn, listening look.
Sandy replied, "Much as we'd like it to, a freak of weather here in the 
Northeastern United States isn't going to have anything to do with whether or 
not a South American madman pushes that button to start the war that very likely 
will be the war to end wars."
The baby moved within Meg, a strong affirmation of life. "Father, is the 
President going to call again?"
"He said he would when-when there's any news. One way or other."
"Within twenty-four hours?"
"Yes. I would not want to be in his position at the moment."
"Or in ours," Dennys said. "It strikes me the whole world is in it together."
Charles Wallace continued to look out the window. "The snow's stopping. The wind 
has shifted to the northwest. The clouds are moving. I see a star." He let the 
curtain drop.
23 
Mrs. O'Keefe jerked her chin toward him. "You. Chuck. I come because of you."
"Why, Mom?" he asked gently.
"You know."
He shook his head.
"Stop him, Chuck. Stop Mad Dog Bran . . . Stop him." She looked old and small 
and Meg wondered how she could have pressed down so heavily on her shoulder. And 
twice Mrs. O'Keefe had called Charles Wallace Chuck. Nobody ever called him 
Chuck. Occasionally plain Charles, but never Charlie or Chuck.
Mrs. Murry asked, "Mrs. O'Keefe, would you like some tea? or coffee?"
Mrs. O'Keefe cackled without mirth. "That's right. Don't hear. Think I'm 
crackers. Not such a fool as all that. Chuck knows." She nodded toward Charles 
Wallace. "Woke up this morning, and wasn't going to come. Then something told me 
I was to come, like it or not, and didn't know why till I saw you with them big 
ancient eyes and the rune started to come back to me, and I knowed once more 
Chuck's no idiot. Haven't thought of the rune since my grandma and Chuck, till 
now. You've got it, Chuck. Use it." Her breath ran out. It was the longest 
speech they had ever heard her give. Panting, she finished. "I want to go home." 
And, as no one spoke: "Someone take me home."
"But, Mrs. O'Keefe," Dennys wheedled, "we haven't had salad, and it's got lots 
of avocado and tomato in it, and then there's flaming plum pudding."
24 24A Swiftly Tilting Planet
"Flame yourself. I done what I come for. Someone take me home."
"Very well, Mrs. O'Keefe." Mr. Murry rose. "Den or Sandy, will you drive Mrs. 
O'Keefe home?"
"I will," Dennys said. "I'll get your coat, ma'am."
When the car had driven off, Sandy said, "One could almost take her seriously."
The Murry parents exchanged glances, and Mrs. Murry replied, "I do."
"Oh, come on, Mother, all that rune stuff, and Charles Wallace stopping Mad Dog 
Branzillo singlehanded?"
"Not necessarily that. But I take Mrs. O'Keefe seriously."
Meg looked anxiously at Charles Wallace, spoke to her mother. "You've always 
said there was more to her than meets the eye. I guess we've just seen some of 
that more."
"I rather think we have," her father said.
"All right, then, what was it all about? It was all-all unnatural."
"What's natural?" Charles Wallace asked.
Sandy raised his eyebrows. "Okay, little brother, what do you make of it, then? 
How do yovi plan to stop Bran-zillo?"
"I don't know," Charles Wallace replied seriously. "I'll use the rune."
"Do you remember it?" Meg asked.
"I remember it."
"Did you hear her call you Chuck?"
"I heard."
25 25
"But nobody ever calls you Chuck. Where did she get it?"
"I'm not sure. Out of the past, maybe."
The phone rang, and they all jumped. Mr. Murry hurried to the phone table, then 
drew back an instant before picking up the receiver.
But it was not the President. It was Calvin, calling from London. He spoke 
briefly to everybody, was sorry to miss his mother and Dennys; but he was 
delighted that his mother had come; his paper had gone extremely well; the 
conference was interesting. At the last he asked to speak to Meg again, and said 
only, "I love you," and hung up.
"I always fall apart on overseas calls," she said, "so I don't think he noticed 
anything. There isn't any point telling him when he can't do anything about it, 
and it would just make it awful for him ..." She turned away as Dennys came in, 
blowing on his fingers.
"Calvin called from London." She swallowed her tears. "He sends you his best."
"Sorry to have missed him. How about some salad, now, and then that plum 
pudding?"
-Why are we trying to act normal? Meg wondered, but did not speak her thought 
aloud.
But Charles Wallace replied, "It's sort of like the string holding the package 
together, Meg. We'd all fall apart otherwise."
Her father said, "You know, my dears, the world has been abnormal for so long 
that we've forgotten what it's
26 
like to live in a peaceful and reasonable climate. If there is to be any peace 
or reason, we have to create it in our own hearts and homes."
"Even at a time like this?" Meg asked. The call from Calvin, the sound of her 
husband's voice, had nearly broken her control.
"Especially at a time like this," her mother said gently. "We don't know what 
the next twenty-four hours are going to bring, and if it should be what we fear, 
then the peace and quiet within us will come to our aid."
"Will it?" Meg's voice faltered again.
"Remember," Mr. Murry said, "your mother and I take Mrs. O'Keefe seriously."
"Father," Sandy chided, "you're a pure scientist. You can't take that old woman 
seriously."
"I take the response of the elements to her rune seriously."
"Coincidence," Dennys said without much assurance.
"My training in physics has taught me that there is no such thing as 
coincidence."
"Charles Wallace still hasn't said anything." Meg looked to her small brother.
Dennys asked, "What about it, Charles?"
He shook his head slowly. He looked bewildered. "I don't know. I think I'm 
supposed to do something, but I don't know what. But if I'm meant to do 
something, I'll be told."
"By some little men from outer space?" Sandy asked.
"Something in me will tell me. I don't think any of us
27 27
wants more salad. Let's turn out the lights and let Father flame the pudding."
"I'm not sure I want the lights out," Meg said. "Maybe there isn't going to be 
any more electricity, ever. Let's enjoy it while we have it."
"I'd rather enjoy the light of the plum pudding," Charles Wallace said.
Mrs. Murry took the pudding from the double boiler where it had been steaming, 
and turned it out onto a plate. Dennys took a sprig of holly and stuck it on the 
top. Mr. Murry got a bottle of brandy and poured it liberally over the pudding. 
As he lit the match, Charles Wallace turned out the lights and Sandy blew out 
the candles. The brandy burned with a brilliant blue flame; it seemed brighter 
than Meg remembered from other Thanksgivings. It had always been their 
traditional holiday dessert because, as Mrs. Murry remarked, you can't make pie 
crust over a Bunsen burner, and her attempts at mince or pumpkin pie had not 
been successes.
Mr. Murry tilted the dish so that all the brandy would burn. The flames 
continued, bright and clear and blue, a blue that held in it the warmth of a 
summer sky rather than the chill of winter.
"And the fire with all the strength it hath," Charles Wallace said softly.
"But what kind of strength?" Meg asked. She looked at the logs crackling merrily 
in the fireplace. "It can keep you warm, but if it gets out of hand it can burn 
your house down. It can destroy forests. It can burn whole cities."
28 
"Strength can always be used to destroy as well as create," Charles Wallace 
said. "This fire is to help and heal."
"I hope," Meg said. "Oh, I hope."
29 All Heaven with its power
Meg sat propped up on pillows in the old brass bed in the attic and tried to 
read, because thinking hurt too much, was not even thinking but projection into 
a fearful future. And Calvin was not beside her, to share, to strengthen . . . 
She let the book drop; it was one of her old volumes of fairy tales. She looked 
around the room, seeking comfort in familiar things. Her hair was down for the 
night and fell softly about her shoulders. She glanced at herself in the old, 
ripply mirror over the chest of drawers and despite her anxiety was pleased at 
the reflection. She looked like a child again, but a far lovelier child than she 
actually had been.
30 Swiftly Tilting Planet
Her ears pricked up as she heard a soft, velvety tread, and a stripy kitten 
minced across the wide floorboards, sprang up onto the bed, and began grooming 
itself while purring loudly. There was always at least one kitten around, it 
seemed. She missed the old black dog. What would Fortinbras have made of the 
events of the evening? She would have been happier if the old dog had been in 
his usual forbidden place at the foot of the bed, because he had an unusual 
degree of sensitivity, even for a dog, to anything which could help or harm his 
human family.
Meg felt cold and pulled her battered quilt about her shoulders. She remembered 
Mrs. O'Keefe calling on all Heaven with its power, and thought shudderingly that 
she would settle for one large, loving dog. Heaven had shown considerable power 
that evening, and it was too wild and beyond control for comfort.
And Charles Wallace. She wanted her brother. Mrs. O'Keefe had called on Charles 
to stop Branzillo: he'd need all the powers Heaven could give him.
He had said good night to Meg in a brusque and preoccupied way, and then given 
her one quick blue glance which had made her keep the light on and the book 
open. Sleep, in any event, was far away, lost somewhere in that time which had 
been shattered by the President's phone call.
The kitten rose high on its legs, made three complete turns, and dropped, 
heavily for such a little creature, into the curve of her body. The purr slowly 
faded out and it slept. Meg wondered if she would ever again sleep in that
31 
secure way, relinquishing consciousness without fear of what might happen during 
the night. Her eyes felt dry with fatigue but she did not want to close them and 
shut out the reassurance of the student lamp with its double yellow globes, the 
sagging bookshelves she had made with boards and bricks, the blue print curtains 
at the window; the hem of the curtains had been sagging for longer than she 
cared to remember and she had been meaning to sew it up since well before her 
marriage. -Tomorrow, she thought, -if there is a tomorrow.
When she heard footsteps on the attic stairs she stiffened, then relaxed. They 
had all got in the habit of automatically skipping the seventh step, which not 
only creaked when stepped on, but often made a sound like a shot. She and 
Charles Wallace had learned to put one foot on the extreme left of the step so 
that it let out only a long, slow sigh; when either one of them did this, it was 
a signal for a conference.
She listened to his progress across the attic, heard the rocking of the old 
wooden horse as he gave it his usual affectionate slap on the rump, followed by 
the whing of a dart going into the cork board: all the little signals they had 
built up over the years.
He pushed through the long strands of patterned rice which curtained the 
doorway, stood at the foot of the bed, and rested his chin on the high brass 
rail of the footboard. He looked at her without smiling, then climbed over the 
footboard as he used to do when he was a little boy, and sat cross-legged on the 
foot of the bed. "She really does expect me to do something."
32 
Meg nodded.
"For once I'm feeling more in sympathy with the twins than with Mother and 
Father. The twins think the whole thing is unreasonable and impossible."
"Well-remember, Mother always said there's more to her than meets the eye."
"What about the rune?"
Meg sighed. "She gave it to you."
"What am I supposed to do with it?"
"Stop Branzillo. And I guess I'm feeling like the twins, too. It just doesn't 
make sense."
"Have you ever really talked with her? Do you know her at all?"
"No. I don't think anyone does. Calvin thinks she stopped herself from being 
hurt long, long ago by not letting herself love anybody or anything."
"What's her maiden name?" Charles Wallace asked abruptly.
Meg frowned. "I don't remember. Why?"
"I'm not sure. I feel completely in the dark. But she said her grandmother gave 
her the rune . . . Do you know her first name?"
Meg closed her eyes, thinking. "Branwen. That's it. And she gave me a pair of 
linen sheets for a wedding present. They were filthy. I had to wash them half a 
dozen times, and then they turned out to be beautiful. They must have been from 
her hope chest, and they had embroidered initials, bMz."
"Z and M for what?"
"I don't remember . . ."
33 
"Think, Meg. Let me try to kythe it."
Again she closed her eyes and tried to relax. It was as though too much 
conscious intensity of thinking made her brain rigid and closed, and if she 
breathed slowly and deeply it opened up, and memories and thoughts were freed to 
come to her consciousness where she could share them with Charles Wallace.
"The M-" she said slowly. "I think it's Maddox."
"Maddox. It's trying to tell me something, Maddox, but I'm not sure what. Meg, I 
want you to tell me everything about her you possibly can."
"I don't know much."
"Meg-" The pupils of his eyes enlarged so that the iris was only a pale blue 
ring. "Somehow or other she's got something to do with Branzillo."
"That's-that's-"
"-absurd. That's what the twins would say. And it is. But she came tonight of 
all nights, when she's never been willing to come before. And you heard her say 
that she didn't want to come but she felt impelled to. And then she began to 
remember a rune she hadn't thought of since she was a child, and she told me to 
use it to stop Branzillo."
"And she said we thought she was crackers."
"But she isn't. Mother and Father know that. And nobody can accuse them of being 
dimwitted daydreamers. What does the Z stand for?"
Again Meg shook her head. "I don't know. I don't even remember if I asked, 
though I think I must have."
"Branwen Maddox. Branwen Z. Maddox." He rubbed
34 
his fingers over his forehead. "Maddox. There's a clue there."
The kitten yawned and went brrtt as though they were disturbing it. Meg reached 
out and gently knuckled its hard little head and then scratched the soft fur 
under the chin until it started to purr again and slowly closed its eyes.
"Maddox-it's in a song, or a ballad, about two brothers fighting, like Childe 
Harold maybe. Or maybe a narrative poem-" He buried his head in his hands. "Why 
can't I remember!" he demanded in frustration.
"Is it that important?"
"Yes! I don't know why, but it is. Maddox-fighting his brother and angering the 
gods . . ."
"But, Charles-what does some old story have to do with anything?"
"It's a clue. But I can't get enough ... Is it very cold out?"
Meg looked surprised. "I don't think so. Why?"
Charles Wallace gazed out the window. "The snow hasn't melted, but there isn't 
much wind. And I need to listen."
"The best listening place is the star-watching rock."
He nodded thoughtfully. The large, flattish glacial rock left over from the time 
when oceans of ice had pushed across the land, and which the family called the 
star-watching rock because it gave them a complete and unobstructed view of the 
sky, was indeed a good place to listen. When they lay on it to watch the stars 
they looked straight across the valleys to the hills. Behind the
35 
rock was a small woods. There was no sight of civilization, and little sound. 
Occasionally they heard the roar of a truck far away on the highway, or a plane 
tracking across the sky. But mostly it was quiet enough so that all they heard 
was the natural music of the seasons. Sometimes in the spring Meg thought she 
could hear the grass grow. In the autumn the tree toads sang back and forth as 
though they couldn't bear to let the joys of summer pass. In the winter when the 
temperature dropped swiftly she was sometimes startled by the sound of ice 
freezing with a sharp cracking noise like a rifle retort. This Thanksgiving 
night-if nothing more unusual or horrible happened-would be quiet. It was too 
late in the year for tree toads and locusts and crickets. They might hear a few 
tired leaves sighing wearily from their branches, or the swoosh of the tall 
grasses parting as a small nocturnal animal made its way through the night.
Charles Wallace said, "Good idea. I'll go."
"I'll go with you."
"No. Stay here."
"But-"
"You know Dr. Louise was afraid you were going to get pneumonia last week when 
you had that bad chest cold. You mustn't risk getting cold again, for the baby's 
sake."
"All right, Charles, but, oh-"
"Meg," he said gently. "Something's blocking me, and I need to get unblocked. I 
have to be alone. But I'll need you to kythe with me."
She looked troubled. "I'm out of practice-" Kything
36 36A Swiftly Tilting Planet
was being able to be with someone else, no matter how far away they might be, 
was talking in a language that was deeper than words. Charles Wallace was born 
with this gift; slowly she became able to read the thoughts he sent her, to know 
what he wanted her to know. Kything went far beyond ordinary ESP, and while it 
came to Charles Wallace as naturally as breathing, for Meg it took intense 
concentration. Charles Wallace and Calvin were the only two people with whom she 
was able to give and receive this language that went far beyond words.
Charles Wallace assured her. "It's like swimming, or riding a bike. Once you 
learn, you never forget."
"I know-but I want to go with you." She tried to hold back the thought, -To 
protect you.
"Meg." His voice was urgent. "I'm going to need you, but I'm going to need you 
here, to kythe with me, all the way."
"All the way where?"
His face was white and strained. "I don't know yet. I have a feeling it will be 
a long way, and yet what has to be done has to be done quickly."
"Why you?"
"It may not be me. We're not certain. But it has to be somebody."
-If it's not somebody, Meg thought, -then the world, at least the world as we 
know it, is likely to come to an end.
She reached out and gave her little brother a hug and a kiss. "Peace go with 
you."
37 37
She turned out the light and lay down to wait until she heard him in her mind. 
The kitten stretched and yawned and slept, and its very indifference was a 
comfort. Then the sharp sound of a dog barking made her sit up.
The barking continued, sharp and demanding, very much like Fortinbras when he 
was asking for attention. She turned on the light. The barking stopped. Silence. 
Why had it stopped?
She got out of bed and hurriedly slipped into a robe and slippers and went 
downstairs, forgetting the seventh step, which groaned loudly. In the kitchen 
she saw her parents and Charles Wallace all stroking a large, nondescript dog.
Mrs. Murry looked with no surprise at Meg. "I think our dog has found us."
Mr. Murry pulled gently at the dog's upright ear; the other drooped. "She's a 
'yaller dog' in looks, but she appears to be gentle and intelligent."
"No collar or anything," Charles Wallace said. "She's hungry, but not overly 
thin."
"Will you fix her some food, Meg?" Mrs. Murry asked. "There's still some in the 
pantry left over from Fortinbras."
As Meg stirred up a bowl of food she thought, -We're all acting as though this 
dog is going to be with us for a long time.
It wasn't the coming of the dog that was strange, or their casual acceptance of 
it. Fortinbras had come to them in the same way, simply appearing at the door, 
an
38 Swiftly Tilting Planet
overgrown puppy. It was the very ordinariness of it which made tears prickle 
briefly against her lashes.
"What are we going to call her?" Mrs. Murry asked.
Charles Wallace spoke calmly. "Her name is Ananda."
Meg looked at him, but he only smiled slightly. She put the food down and the 
dog ate hungrily, but tidily.
"Ananda," Mrs. Murry said thoughtfully. "That rings some kind of bell."
"It's Sanskrit," Charles Wallace said.
Meg asked, "Does it mean anything?"
"That joy in existence without which the universe will fall apart and collapse."
"That's a mighty big name for one dog to carry," Mrs. Murry said.
"She's a large dog, and it's her name," Charles Wallace responded.
When Ananda had finished eating, licking Fortinbras's old bowl till it was 
clean, she went over to Meg, tail wagging, and held up one paw. Meg took it; the 
pads felt roughly leathery and cool. "You're beautiful, Ananda."
"She's hardly that," Mr. Murry said, smiling, "but she certainly knows how to 
make herself at home."
The kettle began to sing. "I'm making tea against the cold." Mrs. Murry turned 
off the burner and filled the waiting pot. "Then we'd better go to bed. It's 
very late."
"Mother," Meg asked, "do you know what Mrs. O'Keefe's first name is? Is it 
Branwen?"
"I think so, though I doubt if I'll ever feel free to call her that." She placed 
a steaming cup in front of Meg.
39 39
"You remember the sheets she gave us?"
"Yes, superb old linen sheets."
"With initials. A large M in the middle, with a smaller b and z on either side. 
Do you know what the Z stands for?"
"Zoe or Zillah or something unusual like that. Why?"
Meg answered with another question. "Does the name Branwen mean anything? It's 
sort of odd."
"It's a common enough Irish name. I think the first Branwen was a queen in 
Ireland, though she came from England. Perhaps she was a Pict, I'm not sure."
"When?" Charles Wallace asked.
"I don't know exactly. Long ago."
"More than two thousand years?"
"Maybe three thousand. Why?"
Charles Wallace poured milk into his tea and studied the cloudy liquid. "It just 
might be important. After all, it's Mom O'Keefe's name."
"She was born right here in the village, wasn't she?" Meg asked.
Her father replied, "There've been Maddoxes here as far back as anybody 
remembers. She's the last of the name, but they were an important family in the 
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They've known hard times since then."
"What happened?" Charles Wallace pursued.
Mr. Murry shook his head. "I keep thinking that one of these years your mother 
or I'll have time to do research into the early years of the village. Our roots 
are here, too, buried somewhere in the past. I inherited this
40 
house from a great-aunt I hardly knew, just at the time we were making up our 
minds to leave the pressures of the city and continue our research in peace and 
quiet- and getting the house swung the balance."
"As for time for other interests"-Mrs. Murry sounded rueful-"we don't have any 
more time than we did in the city. But at least here the pressure to work is our 
own, and not imposed on us."
"This Branwen-" Charles Wallace persisted, "was she an important queen?"
Mrs. Murry raised her fine brows. "Why this sudden and intense interest?"
"Branwen Maddox O'Keefe was extraordinarily interesting this evening."
Mrs. Murry sipped her tea. "I haven't thought about the mythologies of the 
British Isles since you all grew too old for reading aloud at bedtime. I suspect 
Branwen must have been important or I wouldn't remember her at all. Sorry not to 
be able to tell you more. I've been thinking more about cellular biology than 
mythology these last few years."
Charles Wallace finished his tea and put the cup in the sink. "All right if I go 
for a walk?"
"I'd rather not," his father said. "It's late."
"Please, Father, I need to listen." He sounded and looked very young.
"Can't you listen here?"
"Too many distractions, too many people's thoughts in the way . . ."
41 
"Can't it wait?"
Charles Wallace looked at his father without answering.
Mr. Murry sighed. "None of us takes Mrs. O'Keefe and all that happened this 
evening lightly, but you've always tended to take too much on yourself."
The boy's voice strained. "This time I'm not taking it on myself. Mrs. O'Keefe 
put it on me."
His father looked at him gravely, then nodded. "Where are you going?"
"Not far. Just to the star-watching rock."
Mr. Murry rinsed his teacup, rinsed it, and rinsed it again. "You're still a 
child."
"I'm fifteen. And there's nothing to hurt me between home and the star-watching 
rock."
"All right. Don't stay long."
"No longer than necessary."
"Take Ananda with you."
"I need to be alone. Please, Father."
Mr. Murry took off his glasses, looked at his son through them at a distance, 
put them on again. "All right, Charles."
Meg looked at her mother and guessed that she was holding back from telling her 
youngest child not to forget to put on boots and a warm jacket.
Charles Wallace smiled toward their mother. "I'll wear the blue anorak Calvin 
brought me from Norway." He turned the last of his smile to his sister, then 
went into the pantry, shutting the kitchen door firmly behind him.
42 42A Swiftly Tilting Planet
"Time for the rest of us to go to bed," Mrs. Murry said. "You particularly, Meg. 
You don't want to catch more cold."
"I'll take Ananda with me."
Her father objected. "We don't even know if she's housebroken."
"She ate like a well-trained dog."
"It's up to you, then."
Meg did not know why she felt such relief at the coming of the big yellow dog. 
After all, Ananda could not be her dog. When Calvin returned from London they 
would go back to their rented apartment, where pets were not allowed, and Ananda 
would remain with the Murrys. But that was all right; Ananda, she felt, was 
needed.
The dog followed Meg upstairs as though she'd been with the Murrys all her life, 
trotted through the cluttered attic and into Meg's room. The kitten was asleep 
on the bed, and the big dog sniffed the small puff of fur, tail wagging in an 
ecstasy of friendliness. Her tail was large and long, with a smattering of 
golden feathers, which might possibly indicate some kind of setter or Labrador 
blood in her genetic pattern, the kind of tail which could create as much havoc 
in a china shop as a bull. The kitten opened its eyes, gave a small, 
disinterested hiss, and went back to sleep. With one leap, Ananda landed on the 
bed, thumping heavily and happily with her mighty tail. The kitten rose and 
stalked to the pillow.
As she had so often said to Fortinbras, Meg announced, "Sleeping on the bed 
isn't allowed." Ananda's amber
43 
eyes looked at her imploringly and she whined softly. "Well-only up here. Never 
downstairs. If you want to be part of this household you'll have to understand 
that."
Ananda thumped; light from the student lamp glinted against her eyes, turning 
them to gold. Her coat shone with a healthy glow.
"Make way for me." Meg climbed back into bed. "Now, Ananda"-she was taking 
comfort in reverting to her child's habit of talking out loud to the family 
animals -"what we're going to do is listen, very intently, for Charles Wallace. 
You have to help me kythe, or you'll have to get off the bed." She rubbed her 
hand over Ananda's coat, which smelled of ferns and moss and autumn berries, and 
felt a warm and gentle tingling, which vibrated through her hand and up her arm. 
Into her mind's eye came a clear image of Charles Wallace walking across what 
had once been the twins' vegetable garden, but which was now a small grove of 
young Christmas trees, a project they could care for during vacations. Their 
magnificent vegetable garden had been plowed under when they went to college. 
Meg missed it, but she knew that both her parents were much too busy to tend to 
more than a small patch of lettuce and tomatoes.
Charles Wallace continued to walk along the familiar route.
Hand resting on Ananda, the tingling warmth flowing back and forth between them, 
Meg followed her brother's steps. When he reached the open space where the star-
44 44A Swiftly Tilting Planet
watching rock was, Ananda's breathing quickened; Meg could feel the rise and 
fall of the big dog's rib cage under her hand.
There was no moon, but starlight touched the winter grasses with silver. The 
woods behind the rock were a dark shadow. Charles Wallace looked across the 
valley, across the dark ridge of pines, to the shadows of the hills beyond. Then 
he threw back his head and called,
"In this fateful hour I call on all Heaven with its power!"
The brilliance of the stars increased. Charles Wallace continued to gaze upward. 
He focused on one star which throbbed with peculiar intensity. A beam of light 
as strong as a ladder but clear as water flowed between the star and Charles 
Wallace, and it was impossible to tell whether the light came from the piercing 
silver-blue of the star or the light blue eyes of the boy. The beam became 
stronger and firmer and then all the light resolved itself in a flash of 
radiance beside the boy. Slowly the radiance took on form, until it had 
enfleshed itself into the body of a great white beast with flowing mane and 
tail. From its forehead sprang a silver horn which contained the residue of the 
light. It was a creature of utter and absolute perfection.
The boy put his hand against the great white flanks, which heaved as though the 
creature had been racing. He could feel the warm blood coursing through the 
veins as the light had coursed between star and boy. "Are you real?" he asked in 
a wondering voice.
45 
The creature gave a silver neigh which translated itself into the boy's mind as 
"I am not real. And yet in a sense I am that which is the only reality."
"Why have you come?" The boy's own breath was rapid, not so much with 
apprehension as with excitement and anticipation.
"You called on me."
"The rune-" Charles Wallace whispered. He looked with loving appreciation at the 
glorious creature standing beside him on the star-watching rock. One silver-shod 
hoof pawed lightly, and the rock rang with clarion sound. "A unicorn. A real 
unicorn."
"That is what you call me. Yes."
"What are you, really?"
"What are you, really?" the unicorn countered. "You called me, and because there 
is great need, I am here."
"You know the need?"
"I have seen it in your mind."
"How is it that you speak my language?"
The unicorn neighed again, the sound translucent as silver bubbles. "I do not. I 
speak the ancient harmony."
"Then how is it that I understand?"
"You are very young, but you belong to the Old Music."
"Do you know my name?"
"Here, in this When and Where, you are called Charles Wallace. It is a brave 
name. It will do."
Charles Wallace stretched up on tiptoe to reach his arms about the beautiful 
beast's neck. "What am I to call you?"
46 46A Swiftly Tilting Planet
"You may call me Gaudior." The words dropped on the rock like small bells.
Charles Wallace looked thoughtfully at the radiance of the horn. "Gaudior. 
That's Latin for more joyful."
The unicorn neighed in acquiescence.
"That joy in existence without which . . ."
Gaudior struck his hoof lightly on the rock, with the sound of a silver trumpet. 
"Do not push your understanding too far."
"But I'm not wrong about Gaudior?"
"In a sense, yes; in a sense, no."
"You're real and you're not real; I'm wrong and I'm right."
"What is real?" Gaudior's voice was as crystal as the horn.
"What am I supposed to do, now that I've called on all Heaven with its power and 
you've come?"
Gaudior neighed. "Heaven may have sent me, but my powers are closely defined and 
narrowly limited. And I've never been sent to your planet before. It's 
considered a hardship assignment." He looked down in apology.
Charles Wallace studied the snow-dusted rock at his feet. "We haven't done all 
that well by our planet, have we?"
"There are many who would like to let you wipe yourselves out, except it would 
affect us all; who knows what might happen? And as long as there are even a few 
who belong to the Old Music, you are still our brothers and sisters."
47 
Charles Wallace stroked Gaudior's long, aristocratic nose. "What should I do, 
then?"
"We're in it together." Gaudior knelt delicately and indicated that Charles 
Wallace was to climb up onto his back. Even with the unicorn kneeling, it was 
with difficulty that the boy clambered up and sat astride, up toward the great 
neck, so that he could hold on to the silver mane. He pressed his feet in their 
rubber boots as tightly as he could against the unicorn's flanks.
Gaudior asked, "Have you ridden the wind before?"
"XT "
No.
"We have to be careful of Echthroi," Gaudior warned. "They try to ride the wind 
and throw us off course."
"Echthroi-" Charles Wallace's eyes clouded. "That means the enemy."
"Echthroi," Gaudior repeated. "The ancient enemy. He who distorted the harmony, 
and who has gathered an army of destroyers. They are everywhere in the 
universe."
Charles Wallace felt a ripple of cold move along his spine.
"Hold my mane," the unicorn advised. "There's always the possibility of 
encountering an Echthros, and if we do, it'll try to unseat you."
Charles Wallace's knuckles whitened as he clutched the heavy mane. The unicorn 
began to run, skimming over the tops of the grasses, up, over the hills, 
flinging himself onto the wind and riding with it, up, up, over the stars . . .
48 
In her attic bedroom Meg regarded Ananda, who thumped her massive tail in a 
friendly manner. "What's this about?" Meg demanded.
Ananda merely thudded again, waking the kitten, who gave a halfhearted brrtt and 
stalked across the pillow.
Meg looked at her battered alarm clock, which stood in its familiar place on the 
bookcase. The hands did not seem to have moved. "Whatever's going on, I don't 
understand."
Ananda whined softly, an ordinary whine coming from an ordinary dog of 
questionable antecedents, a mongrel like many in the village.
49 
"Gaudior," Meg murmured. "More joyful. That's a good name for a unicorn. 
Gaudior, Ananda: that joy without which the universe will fall apart and 
collapse. Has the world lost its joy? Is that why we're in such a mess?" She 
stroked Ananda thoughtfully, then held up the hand which had been pressing 
against the dog's flank. It glowed with radiant warmth. "I told Charles Wallace 
I'm out of practice in kything. Maybe I've been settling for the grownup world. 
How did you know we needed you, Ananda? And when I touch you I can kythe even 
more deeply than I've ever done before." She put her hand back on the 
comfortable flank and closed her eyes, shivering with the strain of 
concentration.
She saw neither Charles Wallace nor the unicorn. She saw neither the familiar 
earth with the star-watching rock, the woods, the hills, nor the night sky with 
its countless galaxies. She saw nothing. Nothing. There was no wind to ride or 
be blown by.
Nothing was. She was not. There was no dark. There was no light. No sight nor 
sound nor touch nor smell nor taste. No sleeping nor waking. No dreaming, no 
knowing.
Nothing.
And then a surge of joy.
All senses alive and awake and filled with joy.
Darkness was, and darkness was good. As was light.
Light and darkness dancing together, born together, born of each other, neither 
preceding, neither following, both fully being, in joyful rhythm.
50 50A Swiftly Tilting Planet
The morning stars sang together and the ancient harmonies were new and it was 
good. It was very good.
And then a dazzling star turned its back on the dark, and it swallowed the dark, 
and in swallowing the dark it became the dark, and there was something wrong 
with the dark, as there was something wrong with the light. And it was not good. 
The glory of the harmony was broken by screeching, by hissing, by laughter which 
held no merriment but was hideous, horrendous cacophony.
With a strange certainty Meg knew that she was experiencing what Charles Wallace 
was experiencing. She saw neither Charles Wallace nor the unicorn, but she knew 
through Charles Wallace's knowing.
The breaking of the harmony was pain, was brutal anguish, but the harmony kept 
rising above the pain, and the joy would pulse with light, and light and dark 
once more knew each other, and were part of the joy.
Stars and galaxies rushed by, came closer, closer, until many galaxies were one 
galaxy, one galaxy was one solar system, one solar system was one planet. There 
was no telling which planet, for it was still being formed. Steam boiled upward 
from its molten surface. Nothing could live in this primordial caldron.
Then came the riders of the wind when all the riders sang the ancient harmonies 
and the melody was still new, and the gentle breezes cooled the burning. And the 
boiling, hissing, flaming, steaming, turned to rain, aeons of rain, clouds 
emptying themselves in continuing torrents of rain which covered the planet with 
healing darkness,
51 
until the clouds were nearly emptied and a dim light came through their veils 
and touched the water of the ocean so that it gleamed palely, like a great 
pearl.
Land emerged from the seas, and on the land green began to spread. Small green 
shoots rose to become great trees, ferns taller than the tallest oaks. The air 
was fresh and smelled of rain and sun, of green of tree and plant, blue of sky.
The air grew heavy with moisture. The sun burned like brass behind a thick gauze 
of cloud. Heat shimmered on the horizon. A towering fern was pushed aside by a 
small greenish head on a long, thick neck, emerging from a massive body. The 
neck swayed sinuously while the little eyes peered about.
Clouds covered the sun. The tropical breeze heightened, became a cold wind. The 
ferns drooped and withered. The dinosaurs struggled to move away from the cold, 
dying as their lungs collapsed from the radical change in temperature. Ice moved 
inexorably across the land. A great white bear padded along, snuffling, looking 
for food.
Ice and snow and then rain again and at last sunlight breaking through the 
clouds, and green again, green of grass and trees, blue of sky by day, sparkle 
of stars by night.
Unicorn and boy were in a gentle, green glade, surrounded by trees.
"Where are we?" Charles Wallace asked. "We're here," the unicorn replied 
impatiently.
52 
"Here?"
Gaudior snorted. "Don't you recognize it?"
Charles Wallace looked around at the unfamiliar landscape. Tree ferns spread 
their fronds skyward as though drinking blue. Other trees appeared to be lifting 
their branches to catch the breeze. The boy turned to Gaudior. "I've never been 
here before."
Gaudior shook his head in puzzlement. "But it's your own Where, even if it's not 
your own When."
"My own what?"
"Your own Where. Where you stood and called on all Heaven with its power and I 
was sent to you."
Again Charles Wallace scanned the unfamiliar landscape and shook his head.
"It's a very different When," Gaudior conceded. "You're not accustomed to moving 
through time?"
"I've moved through fifteen years' worth of time."
"But only in one direction."
"Oh-" Understanding came to the boy. "This isn't my time, is it? Do you mean 
that Where we are now is the same place as the star-watching rock and the woods 
and the house, but it's a different time?"
"For unicorns it is easier to move about in time than in space. Until we learn 
more what we are meant to do, I am more comfortable if we stay in the same 
Where."
"You know Where we are, then? I mean-When we arc? Is it time gone, or time to 
be?"
"It is, I think, what you would call Once Upon a Time and Long Ago."
"So we're not in the present."
53 53
"Of course we are. Whenever we are is present."
"We're not in my present. We're not When we were when you came to me."
"When I was called to you," Gaudior corrected. "And When is not what matters. 
It's what happens in the When that matters. Are you ready to go?"
"But-didn't you say we're right here? Where the star-watching rock was-I mean, 
will be?"
"That's what I said." Gaudior's hoof pawed the lush green of the young grass. 
"If you are to accomplish what you have been asked to accomplish, you will have 
to travel in and out."
"In and out of time?"
"Time, yes. And people."
Charles Wallace looked at him in startlement. "What?"
"You have been called to find a Might-Have-Been, and in order to do this, you 
will have to be sent Within."
"Within-Within someone else? . . . But I don't know
r t"
it 1 can.
"Why not?" Gaudior demanded.
"But-if I go Within someone else-what happens to my own body?"
"It will be taken care of."
"Will I get it back?"
"If all goes well."
"And if all does not go well?"
"Let us hold firmly to all going well."
Charles Wallace wrapped his arms about himself as though for warmth. "And you 
wonder that I'm frightened?"
54 
"Of course you're frightened. I'm frightened, too."
"Gaudior, it's a very scary thing just to be told casually that you're going to 
be inside someone else's body. What happens to me?"
"I'm not entirely sure. But you don't get lost. You stay you. If all goes well."
"But I'm someone else, too?"
"If you're open enough."
"If I'm in another body, do I have to be strong enough for both of us?"
"Perhaps," Gaudior pointed out, "your host will be the stronger of the two. Are 
you willing?"
"I don't know . . ." He seemed to hear Meg warning him that it was always 
disastrous when he decided that he was capable of taking on, singlehanded, more 
than anyone should take on.
"It would appear," Gaudior said, "that you have been called. And the calling is 
never random, it is always according to the purpose."
"What purpose?"
Gaudior ignored him. "It appears that you are gifted in going Within."
"But I've never-"
"Are you not able to go Within your sister?"
"When we kythe, then, yes, a little. But I don't literally go Within Meg, or 
become Meg. I stay me."
"Do you?"
Charles Wallace pondered this. "When I'm kything with Meg, I'm wholly aware of 
her. And when she kythes with me, then she's more aware of me than she is of 
her-
55 55
self. I guess kything is something like your going Within -that makes it sound a 
little less scary."
Gaudior twitched his beard. "Now you have been called to go Within in the 
deepest way of all. And I have been called to help you." The light in his horn 
pulsed and dimmed. "You saw the beginning."
"Yes."
"And you saw how a destroyer, almost since the beginning, has tried to break the 
ancient harmonies?"
"Where did the destroyer come from?"
"From the good, of course. The Echthros wanted all the glory for itself, and 
when that happens the good becomes not good; and others have followed that first 
Echthros. Wherever the Echthroi go, the shadows follow, and try to ride the 
wind. There are places where no one has ever heard the ancient harmonies. But 
there is always a moment when there is a Might-Have-Been. What we must do is 
find the Might-Have-Beens which have led to this particular evil. I have seen 
many Might-Have-Beens. If such and such had been chosen, then this would not 
have followed. If so and so had been done, then the light would partner the dark 
instead of being snuffed out. It is possible that you can move into the moment 
of a Might-Have-Been and change it."
Charles Wallace's fingers tightened in the silver mane. "I know I can't avert 
disaster just because Mrs. O'Keefe told me to. I may be arrogant, but not that 
arrogant. But my sister is having a baby, and I can be strong enough to attempt 
to avert disaster for her sake. And Mrs. O'Keefe gave me the rune . . ." He 
looked around him
56 
at the fresh green world. Although he was still wearing boots and the warm 
Norwegian anorak, he was not uncomfortable. Suddenly song surrounded him, and a 
flock of golden birds settled in the trees. "When are we, then? How long ago?"
"Long. I took us all the way back before this planet's Might-Have-Beens, before 
people came and quarreled and learned to kill."
"How did we get to here-to long ago?" "On the wind. The wind blows where it 
will." "Will it take us Where-When-you want us to go?" The light of the 
unicorn's horn pulsed, and the light in the horn, holding the blue of the sky, 
was reflected in Charles Wallace's eyes. "Before the harmonies were broken, 
unicorns and winds danced together with joy and no fear. Now there are Echthroi 
who are greedy for the wind, as for all else, so there are times when they ride 
the wind and turn it into a tornado, and you had better be grateful we didn't 
ride one of those-it's always a risk. But we did come to When I wanted, to give 
us a little time to catch our breaths."
The golden birds fluttered about them, and then the sky was filled with a cloud 
of butterflies which joined the birds in patterned flight. In the grass little 
jeweled lizards darted.
"Here the wind has not been troubled," Gaudior said. "Come. This glimpse is all 
I can give you of this golden time."
"Must we leave so soon?" "The need is urgent."
57 57
Yes, the need was indeed urgent. Charles Wallace looked up at the unicorn. 
"Where do we go now?"
Gaudior pawed the lush green impatiently. "Not Where; can you not get that 
through your human skull? When. Until we know more than we know now, we will 
stay right here in your own Where. There is something to be learned here, and we 
have to find out what."
"You don't know?"
"I am a mere unicorn." Gaudior dropped his silver lashes modestly. "All I know 
is that there is something important to the future right here in this place 
where you watch stars. But whatever it was did not happen until the ancient 
music of the spheres was distorted. So now we go to a When of people."
"Do you know when that When is?"
The light in Gaudior's horn dimmed and flickered, which Charles Wallace was 
beginning to recognize as a sign that the unicorn was troubled or uncertain. "A 
far When. We can ride this wind without fear, for here the ancient harmonies are 
still unbroken. But it may roughen if the When we enter is a dissonant one. Hold 
on tight. I will be taking you Within."
"Within-who am I going Within?" Charles Wallace twined the mane through his 
fingers.
"I will ask the wind."
"You don't know?"
"Questions, questions." Gaudior stomped one silver hoof. "I am not some kind of 
computer. Only machines have glib answers for everything." The light in the horn 
pulsed with brilliance; sparks flew from Gaudior's hoofs,
58 
and they were off and up. The smooth flanks became fluid, and slowly great wings 
lifted and moved with the wind.
The boy felt the wind swoop under and about them. Riding the unicorn, riding the 
wind, he felt wholly in freedom and joy; wind, unicorn, boy, merged into a 
single swiftness.
Stars, galaxies, circled in cosmic pattern, and the joy of unity was greater 
than any disorder within.
And then, almost without transition, they were in a place of rocks and trees and 
high grasses and a large lake. What would, many centuries later, become the 
star-watching rock was a small mountain of stone. The woods behind the rock was 
a forest of towering fern trees and giant umbrageous trees he did not recognize. 
In front of the rock, instead of the valley of Charles Wallace's When, there was 
a lake stretching all the way to the hills, sparkling in the sunlight. Between 
the rock and the lake were strange huts of stone and hide, half house, half 
tent, forming a crescent at the lake's edge.
In front of and around the dwellings was activity and laughter, men and women 
weaving, making clay from the lake into bowls and dishes, painting the pottery 
with vivid colors and intricate geometrical designs. Children played at the 
water's edge, splashing and skipping pebbles.
A boy sat on an outcropping of rock, whittling a spear with a sharp stone. He 
was tanned and lean, with shin-
59 59
ing hair the color of a blackbird's wing, and dark eyes which sparkled like the 
water of the lake. His cheekbones were high, and his mouth warm and full. He 
gave the making of the spear his full concentration. He looked across the 
glinting waters of the lake and sniffed the scent of fish. Then he turned back 
to his spear, but his sensitive nostrils quivered almost imperceptibly as he 
smelled in turn the green of grass, the blue of sky, the red blood of an animal 
in the forest. He did not appear to notice the unicorn standing behind him on 
the hill of stone, or if he did, he took the beautiful creature completely for 
granted. Gaudior's wings were folded back into the flanks now, so that they were 
invisible; the light in the horn was steady.
Meg pressed her hand intently against Ananda. The big dog turned her head and 
licked her hand reassuringly with her warm, red tongue.
Meg felt her senses assailed with an awareness she had never experienced with 
such intensity before, even in childhood. The blue of sky was so brilliant it 
dazzled her inner eye. Although it was cold in the attic, she could feel the 
radiant warmth of the day; her skin drank the loveliness of sun. She had never 
before smelled rock, nor the richness of the dark earth, nor the wine of the 
breeze, as she smelled them now.
Why? How? She could see the unicorn, but she could not see Charles Wallace. 
Where was he?
Then she understood.
Charles Wallace was Within the boy on the rock. In
60 
some strange way, Charles Wallace was the boy on the rock, seeing through his 
eyes, hearing through his ears (never had bird song trilled with such sparkling 
clarity), smelling through his nose, and kything all that his awakened senses 
received.
Gaudior neighed softly. "You must be careful," he warned. "You are not Charles 
Wallace Murry. You must lose yourself as you do when you kythe with your sister. 
You must become your host."
"My host-"
"Harcels, of the People of the Wind. You must not know more than he knows. When 
you think thoughts outside his thoughts, you must keep them from him. It is best 
if you do not even think them."
Charles Wallace stirred timidly within Harcels. How would he, himself, accept 
such an intrusion by another? Had he ever been so intruded?
"No," Gaudior replied, speaking only to that part of Charles Wallace which was 
held back from complete unity with Harcels. "We do not send anyone Within unless 
the danger is so great that-"
"That-"
The light in the horn flickered. "You know some of the possibilities if your 
planet is blown up."
"A few," Charles Wallace said starkly. "It just might throw off the balance of 
things, so that the sun would burst into a supernova."
"That is one of the possibilities, yes. Everything that happens within the 
created Order, no matter how small,
61 
has its effect. If you are angry, that anger is added to all the hate with which 
the Echthroi would distort the melody and destroy the ancient harmonies. When 
you are loving, that lovingness joins the music of the spheres."
Charles Wallace felt a ripple of unease wash over him. "Gaudior-what am I 
supposed to do-Within Harcels?"
"You might start by enjoying being Within him," Gaudior suggested. "In this 
When, the world still knows the Old Music."
"Does he see you, as I do?"
"Yes."
"He is not surprised."
"To joy, nothing is surprising. Relax, Charles. Kythe with Harcels. Be Harcels. 
Let yourself go." He struck one hoof against rock, drawing sparks, leapt from 
the rock in a great arc, and galloped into the woods.
Harcels rose, stretched languorously. He, too, leapt from the rock with the 
gravity-defying ease of a ballet dancer, landed on the springy grass, rolled 
over in merriment, sprang to his feet, and ran to the water's edge, calling to 
the children, the weavers, the potters.
At the edge of the lake he stood very still, isolating himself from the activity 
around him. He pursed his lips and whistled, a long sweet summons, and then 
called softly, "Finna, Finna, Finna!"
Halfway across the lake there was a disturbance in the water and a large 
creature came swimming, leaping, flying, toward Harcels, who in turn flung 
himself into the water and swam swiftly to meet it.
Finna was akin to a dolphin, though not as large, and
62 
her skin was an iridescent blue-green. She had the gracious smile of a dolphin, 
and the same familiarity with sea and air. As she met Harcels she sent a small 
fountain of water through her blowhole, drenching the boy, who shouted with 
laughter.
For a few moments they wrestled together, and then Harcels was riding Finna, 
leaping through the air, holding tight as Finna dove down, down deep below the 
surface, gasping as she flashed again up into the sunlight, sending spray in 
every direction.
It was sheer joy.
What Charles Wallace had known in occasional flashes of beauty was Harcels's way 
of life.
In the attic bedroom Meg kept her hand on Ananda. A shudder moved like a wave 
over them both. "Oh, Ananda," Meg said, "why couldn't it have stayed that way? 
What happened?"
-When? Charles Wallace wondered. -When are we?
For Harcels, all Whens were Now. There was yesterday, which was gone, which was 
only a dream. There was tomorrow, which was a vision not unlike today. When was 
always Now, for there was little looking either backward or forward in this 
young world. If Now was good, yesterday, though a pleasurable dream, was not 
necessary. If Now was good, tomorrow would likely continue to be so.
The People of the Wind were gentle and harmonious. On the rare occasions when 
there was a difference of
63 
opinion, it was mediated by the Harmonizer, and his judgment was always 
accepted. Fish were caught, flesh shot with bow and arrow, never more than 
needed. Each person in the tribe knew what he was born to do, and no gift was 
considered greater or less than another. The Harmonizer held a position no more 
lofty than the youngest cook just learning to build a fire or clean a fish.
One day a wild boar of monstrous size chased a small party of hunters, and the 
smallest and slowest among them was gored in the side. Harcels helped carry him 
home, and knelt all through the night with the Healer, bringing fresh cool moss 
to lay against the fevered wound, singing the prayers of healing as each star 
moved in its own ordained dance across the sky.
In the morning there was great rejoicing, for not only was the fiery wound 
cooling but it was recognized that Harcels had found his gift and would be 
apprenticed to the Healer, and when the Healer went to dwell with those who move 
among the stars, Harcels would take his place.
The melody was clear and pure. The harmony was un-distorted. Time was still 
young and the sun was bright by day and moved without fear to rest in the realm 
of distant stars by night.
Harcels had many friends among his people, but his heart's companions were 
beasts: Finna, and Eyrn, a great bird something between an eagle and a giant 
gull, and large enough for Harcels to ride. Eyrn's feathers were white, tipped 
with rose, shading to purple. She was crowned with a tuft of rosy feathers, and 
her eyes were
64 64A Swiftly Tilting Planet
ruby. With Harcels firmly astride she would fly high, high, higher, until the 
air was thin and the boy gasped for breath. She flew far and high, so that he 
could see the dwellings of distant tribes, could see the ocean that stretched, 
it seemed, across all the rest of the world.
Harcels asked the Teller of Tales about the other tribes.
"Leave them be," the Teller of Tales said in the sharpest voice he had ever been 
heard to use.
"But it might be fun to know them. They might have things to teach us."
"Harcels," the Teller of Tales said, "I, too, have ridden a creature like your 
Eyrn, and I have had my steed descend in a hidden place, that I might watch 
unseen. I saw a man kill a man."
"But why? Why ever would one man kill another?"
The Teller of Tales looked long into the clear eyes of the boy. "Let us hope you 
will never have to know."
It was easy for Charles Wallace to live Within Harcels, in the brightness of the 
young sun, where darkness was the friend of light. One day when Harcels was 
astride Eyrn, they flew over a cluster of dwellings and the boy started to ask 
Eyrn to descend, but Charles Wallace gently drew his thoughts to the pleasure of 
flight as Eyrn threw himself upon a stream of wind and glided with the merest 
motion of wings. Charles Wallace was not certain that this small interference 
was permissible; he knew only that if Harcels learned the ways of the tribes
65 65
who knew how to kill, his joy would vanish with his innocence.
-It was the right thing to do, Meg kythed to him fiercely. -It has to be the 
right thing.
She looked again at the clock. The hands had barely moved. While the seasons 
were following each other in swift succession in that Other Time where Charles 
Wallace lived Within Harcels, time was arrested in her own present moment. Time 
was moving only in that When in which the land so familiar and dear to her was 
different, where the flat star-watching rock was a hill of stone, the green 
valley a lake, and the little woods a dark forest.
She sighed achingly for a time so full of joy that it was difficult to realize 
it had once been real.
Ananda whined and looked at Meg with great anxious eyes.
"What is it?" Meg asked in alarm. She heard Gaudior's neigh, and saw a pulsing 
of silver light, the diamond-brilliant light which lit the unicorn's horn.
Charles Wallace was astride Gaudior's great neck, looking from within his own 
eyes at Harcels, Within whom he had known such spontaneity and joy that his own 
awareness would evermore share in it. He rubbed his cheek gently against the 
unicorn's silver neck. "Thank you," he whispered.
66 
"Don't thank me," Gaudior snorted. "I'm not the one to decide whom you go 
Within."
"Who does, then?"
"The wind."
"Does the wind tell you?"
"Not until you are Within. And don't expect it to be this way every time. I 
suspect that you were sent Within Harcels to help get you accustomed to 
Within-ing in the easiest way possible. And you must let yourself go even more 
deeply into your hosts if you are to recognize the right Might-Have-Beens."
"If I let myself go, how can I recognize?"
"That you will have to discover for yourself. I can only tell you that this is 
how it works."
"Am I to be sent Within again now?"
"Yes."
"I'm not as afraid as I was, but, Gaudior, I'm still afraid."
"That's all right," Gaudior said.
"And if I let more of myself go, how can I kythe properly with Meg?"
"If you're meant to, you will."
"I'm going to need her ..."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I just know that I am."
Gaudior blew three iridescent bubbles. "Hold tight, tight, tight. We're off on 
the wind, and there may be Echthroi this time who will try to take you from my 
back and throw you off the rim of the world."
67 
The great unicorn flung himself into the wind and they were soaring among the 
stars, part of the dance, part of the harmony. As each flaming sun turned on its 
axis, a singing came from the friction in the way a finger moved around the rim 
of a crystal goblet will make a singing, and the song varies in pitch and tone 
from glass to glass. But this song was exquisite as no song from crystal or wood 
or brass can be. The blending of melody and harmony was so perfect that it 
almost made Charles Wallace relax his hold on the unicorn's mane.
"No!" Meg cried aloud. "Hold on, Charles! Don't let go!"
68 
A blast of icy cold cut across the beauty of the flight, a cold which carried a 
stench of death and decay.
Retching, Charles Wallace buried his face in Gaudior's mane, his fingers 
clenching the silver strands as the Ech-throid wind tried to drag him from the 
unicorn's back. The stench was so abominable that it would have made him loosen 
his grasp had not the pungent scent of Gaudior's living flesh saved him as he 
pressed his face against the silver hide, breathing the strangeness of unicorn 
sweat. Gaudior's bright wings beat painfully against invisible wings of darkness 
beating at them. The unicorn neighed in anguish, his clear tones lost in the 
howling of the tempest.
Suddenly his hoofs struck against something solid. He whinnied with anxiety. 
"Hold on tightly, don't let go," he warned. "We've been blown into a 
Projection."
Charles Wallace could hardly be clutching the mane with more intensity. "A 
what?"
"We've been blown into a Projection, a possible future, a future the Echthroi 
want to make real." His breath came in gasping gulps; his flanks heaved wildly 
under Charles Wallace's legs.
The boy shivered as he remembered those darkly flailing wings and the nauseous 
odor. Whatever the Echthroi wanted to make real would be something fearful.
They were on a flat plain of what appeared to be solidified lava, although it 
had a faint luminosity alien to lava. The sky was covered with flickering pink 
cloud. The air
69 
was acrid, making them cough. The heat was intense and he was perspiring 
profusely under the light anorak, which held in the heat like a furnace.
"Where are we?" he asked, wanting Gaudior to tell him that they were not in his 
own Where, that this could not possibly be the place of the star-watching rock, 
of the woods, only a few minutes' walk from the house.
Gaudior's words trembled with concern. "We're still here, in your own Where, 
although it is not yet a real When."
"Will it be?"
"It is one of the Projections we have been sent to try to prevent. The Echthroi 
will do everything in their power to make it real."
A shudder shook the boy's slight frame as he looked around the devastated 
landscape. "Gaudior-what do we do now?"
"Nothing. You mustn't loosen your hold on my mane. They want us to do something, 
and anything we do might be what they need to make this Projection real."
"Can't we get away?"
The unicorn's ears flicked nervously. "It's very difficult to find a wind to 
ride when one has been blown into a Projection."
"But what do we do?"
"There is nothing to do but wait."
"Is anybody left alive?"
"I don't know."
Around them a sulfurous wind began to rise. Both boy
70 
and unicorn were convulsed with paroxysms of coughing, but Charles Wallace did 
not loosen his grasp. When the seizure was over, he dried his streaming eyes on 
the silver mane.
When he looked up again, his heart lurched with horror. Waddling toward them 
over the petrified earth was a monstrous creature with a great blotched body, 
short stumps for legs, and long arms, with the hands brushing the ground. What 
was left of the face was scabrous and suppurating. It looked at the unicorn with 
its one eye, turned its head as though calling behind it to someone or 
something, and hurried toward them as fast as its stumps would take it.
"Oh, Heavenly Powers, save us!" Gaudior's neigh streaked silver.
The anguished cry called Charles Wallace back to himself. He cried,
"With GaudioT in this fateful hour I call on all Heaven with its power And the 
sun with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness . . ."
He took a deep breath and hot air seared his lungs and again he was assailed by 
an unquellable fit of coughing. He buried his face in the unicorn's mane and 
tried to control the spasm which shook him. It was not until the racking had 
nearly passed that he became aware of something cool brushing his burning face.
He raised his eyes and with awed gratitude he saw
71 71
snow, pure white snow drifting down from the tortured sky, covering the ruined 
earth. The monster had stopped its ponderous approach and was staring up at the 
sky, mouth open to catch the falling flakes.
With the snow came a light wind, a cool wind. "Hold!" Gaudior cried, and raised 
his wings to catch the wind. His four hoofs left the ground and he launched 
himself into the wind with a surge of power.
Charles Wallace braced, trying to tighten the grip of his legs about the 
unicorn's broad neck. He could feel the wild beating of Gaudior's heart as with 
mighty strokes he thrust along the wind through the darkness of outer space, 
until suddenly they burst into a fountain of stars, and the stench and the 
horror were gone.
The unicorn's breath came in great gulps of star-lit air; the wings beat less 
frantically; and they were safely riding the wind again and the song of the 
stars was clear and full.
"Now," said Gaudior, "we go."
"Where?" Charles Wallace asked.
"Not Where," Gaudior said. "When."
Up, up, through the stars, up to the far reaches of the universe where the 
galaxies swirled in their starry dance, weaving time.
Exhausted, Charles Wallace felt his eyelids drooping.
"Do not go to sleep," Gaudior warned.
Charles Wallace leaned over the unicorn's neck. "I'm not sure I can help it," he 
murmured.
72 jzA Swiftly Tilting Planet
"Sing, then," Gaudior commanded. "Sing to keep yourself awake." The unicorn 
opened his powerful jaws and music streamed out in full and magnificent harmony. 
Charles Wallace's voice was barely changing from a pure treble to a warm tenor. 
Now it was the treble, sweet as a flute, which joined Gaudior's mighty organ 
tones. He was singing a melody he did not know, and yet the notes poured from 
his throat with all the assurance of long familiarity.
They moved through the time-spinning reaches of a far galaxy, and he realized 
that the galaxy itself was part of a mighty orchestra, and each star and planet 
within the galaxy added its own instrument to the music of the spheres. As long 
as the ancient harmonies were sung, the universe would not entirely lose its 
joy.
He was hardly aware when Gaudior's hoofs struck ground and the melody dimmed 
until it was only a pervasive beauty of background. With a deep sigh Gaudior 
stopped his mighty song and folded his wings into his flanks.
Meg sighed as the beauty of the melody faded and all she heard was the soft 
movement of the wind in the bare trees. She realized that the room was cold, 
despite the electric heater which augmented the warm air coming up the attic 
stairs from the radiators below. She reached over Ananda to the foot of the bed 
and pulled up her old eiderdown and wrapped it around them both. A gust of wind 
beat at the window, which always rattled unless
73 73
secured by a folded piece of cardboard or a sliver of wood stuck between window 
and frame.
"Ananda, Ananda," she said softly, "the music-it was more-more real than any 
music I've ever heard. Will we hear it again?"
The wind dropped as suddenly as it had risen, and once again she could feel the 
warmth coming from the little heater. "Ananda, he's really a very small boy . . 
. Where is Gaudior going to take him now? Whom is he going to go Within?" She 
closed her eyes, pressing the palm of her hand firmly against the dog.
It was the same Where as the Where of Harcels, but there were subtle 
differences, though it was still what Gaudior had called Once Upon a Time and 
Long Ago, so perhaps men still lived in peace and Charles Wallace would be in no 
danger. But no: time, though still young, was not as young as that, she felt.
The lake lapped close to the great rock and stretched across the valley to the 
horizon, a larger lake than the lake of Harcels's time. The rock itself had been 
flattened by wind and rain and erosion, so that it looked like an enormous, 
slightly tilted tabletop. The forest was dark and deep, but the trees were 
familiar, pine and hemlock and oak and elm.
Dawn.
The air was pure and blue and filled with the fragrance of spring. The grass 
around the rock looked as though it
74 
had been covered with a fall of fresh snow, but the snow was a narcissus-like 
flower with a spicy scent.
On the tabletop stood a young man.
She did not see Charles Wallace. She did not see the unicorn. Only the young 
man.
A young man older than Charles Wallace. Harcels had been younger. This young man 
was older, perhaps not as old as Sandy and Dennys, but more than fifteen. She 
saw no hint of Charles Wallace within the man, but she knew that somehow he was 
there. As Charles Wallace had been himself and yet had been Harcels, so Charles 
Wallace was Within the young man.
He had been there all night, sometimes lying on his back to watch the stars 
swing slowly across the sky; sometimes with his eyes closed, as he listened to 
the lapping of the small waves on the pale sand, the clunk-ings of frogs and the 
hoot of a night bird, the sound of an occasional fish slipping through the 
water. Sometimes he neither heard nor saw; he did not sleep, but abandoned his 
senses and lay on the rock patiently opening himself to the wind.
Perhaps it was his gift of kything practiced with Meg that helped Charles 
Wallace slip more and more deeply into the being of another.
Madoc, son of Owain, king of Gwynedd.
Madoc, on the dawning of his wedding day.
Meg's eyes slowly lowered; her body relaxed under the warmth of the eiderdown; 
but her hand remained on Ananda as she slid into sleep.
75 75
Madoc!
It was for Charles Wallace as though a shuttered window had suddenly been 
opened. It was not a ballad or a song he was trying to remember, it was a novel 
about a Welsh prince named Madoc.
He heard Gaudior's warning neigh. "You are Within Madoc. Do not disturb him with 
outside thoughts."
"But, Gaudior, Madoc was the key figure in the book- oh, why can't I remember 
more!"
Again Gaudior cut him off. "Stop trying to think. Your job now is to let 
yourself go into Madoc. Let go."
Let go.
It was almost like slipping down, deeper and deeper, into the waters of a pool, 
deeper and deeper.
Let go.
Fall into Madoc.
Let go.
Madoc rose from the rock and looked to the east, awaiting the sunrise with 
exalted anticipation. His fair skin was tanned, with a reddishness which showed 
that he was alien to so fierce a sun. He looked toward the indigo line of 
horizon between lake and sky, with eyes so blue that the sky paled in 
comparison. His hair, thick and gold as a lion's mane, was nearly covered with 
an elaborate crown of early spring flowers. A lavish chain of flowers was flung 
over his neck and one shoulder. He wore a kilt of ferns.
The sky lightened, and the sun sent its fiery rays over
76 Tilting Planet
the edge of the lake, reaching up into the sky, pulling itself, dripping, from 
the waters of the night. As the sun seemed to make a great leap out of the dark, 
Madoc began to sing in a strong, joyful baritone.
"Lords of fire and earth and water, Lords of rain and wind and snow, When will 
come the Old Man's daughter? Time to come, or long ago? Born of friend or borne 
by foe?
Lords of water, earth, and fire, Lords of wind and snow and rain, Where is found 
the heart's desire? Has she come? will come again? Born, as all life's born, 
ivith pain?"
When he finished, still looking out over the water, his song was taken up as 
though by an echo, a strange, thin, cracked echo, and then an old man, dressed 
with the same abundance of flowers as Madoc, came out of the forest.
Madoc bent down and helped the old man up onto the rock. For all the Old One's 
age, his stringy-looking muscles were strong, and though his hair was white, his 
dark skin had a glow of health.
"Lords of snow and rain and wind, Lords of water, fire, and earth, Do you know 
the one you send? Does it call for tears or mirth? Shall we sing for death or 
birth?"
77 77
When the strange duet was ended, the old man held up his hand in a gesture of 
blessing. "It is the day, my far-sent son."
"It is the day, my to-be-father. Madoc, son of Owain, king of Gwynedd, will be 
Madoc, son of Reschal, Old One of the Wind People."
"A year ago today, you sang the song in your delirium," Reschal said, "and it 
was the child of my old age who found you in the forest."
"And it is mirth that is called for," the young man affirmed, "and we shall sing 
today for birth, for the birth of the new One which Zyll and I will become when 
you join us together."
"On the night that Zyll was born," the Old One said, "I dreamed of a stranger 
from a distant land, across a lake far greater than ours-"
"From across the ocean"-the young man put his hand lightly on the Old One's 
shoulder-"from the sea which beats upon the shores of Cymru, the sea which we 
thought went on and on until a ship would fall off at the end of the world."
"The end of the world-" the old man started, but broke off, listening.
The young man listened, too, but heard nothing. "Is it the wind?"
"It is not the wind." Reschal looked at the young man and put a gnarled hand on 
the richly muscled arm. "Madoc, son of Owain, king of Gwynedd-how strange those 
syllables sounded to us. We did not know what is a king, nor truly do we yet."
78 78A Swiftly Tilting Planet
"You have no need of a king, Old One of the People of the Wind. Owain, my 
father, is long buried: I am a lifetime away from Gwynedd in Cymru. When the 
soothsayer looked into the scrying glass and foretold my father's death, he saw 
also that I would live my days far from Gwynedd."
The old man again lifted his head to listen.
"Is it the wind?" Still, Madoc could hear nothing beyond the sounds of early 
morning, the lapping of the lake against the shore, the stirring of the wind in 
the hemlocks which made a distant roaring which always reminded him of the sea 
he had left behind him.
"It is not the wind." There was no emotion in the old man's face, only a 
continuing, controlled listening.
The young man could not hide the impatience in his voice. "When is Zyll coming?"
The dark Old One smiled at him with affection. "You have waited how many years?"
"I am seventeen."
"Then you can wait a while longer, while Zyll's maidens make her ready. And 
there are still questions I must ask you. Are you certain in your heart that you 
will never want to leave Zyll and this small, inland people and go back to the 
big water and your ship with wings?"
"My ship was broken by wind and wave when we attempted to land on the rocky 
shores of this land. The sails are torn beyond mending."
"Another ship could be built."
"Old One, even had I the tools to fell the trees for lumber for a new ship, even 
had my brother and my
79 79
companions not perished, I would never wish to leave Zyll and my new brethren."
"And your brother and your companions?"
"They are dead," Madoc said bleakly.
"Yet you hold them back so that they cannot continue their journey."
"We were far from home." Madoc spoke softly. "It is a long journey for their 
spirits."
"Are the gods of Gwynedd so weak they cannot care for their own?"
Madoc's blue eyes were dark with grief. "When we left Gwynedd in Cymru because 
of the quarreling of my brethren over our father's throne, it seemed to us the 
gods had already abandoned us. For brothers to wish to kill each other for the 
sake of power is to anger the gods."
"Perhaps," the old man said, "you must let the gods of Gwynedd go, as you must 
free your companions from your holding."
"I brought them to their death. When my father died, and my brothers became 
drunk with lust for power, as no wine can make a man drunk, I felt the gods 
depart. In a dream I saw them turn their backs on our quarreling, saw them as 
clearly as anything the soothsayers see in their scrying glass. When I awoke, I 
took Gwydyr aside and said that I would not stay to watch brother against 
brother, but that I would go find the land the Wise Ones said was at the farther 
end of the sea. Gwydyr demurred at first."
"He thought he might become king?"
"Yes, but Gwydyr and I were the youngest. The throne
80 Swiftly Tilting Planet
was not likely to be ours while the other five remained alive."
"Yet you, Madoc, the seventh son, were the favored of the people."
"Had I let them proclaim me king, there would have been no way to avoid 
bloodshed. I left Gwynedd to prevent the horror of brother against brother."
"Have you"-the old man regarded Madoc keenly- "in fact left it?"
"I have left it. Gwynedd in Cymru is behind me. It will be ruled by whomever the 
gods choose. I do not wish to know. For now I am Madoc, son-to-be of Reschal, 
soon to be husband of Zyll of the People of the Wind."
"And Gwydyr? Have you let him go?"
Madoc gazed across the lake. "In many ways it seemed that I was older than he, 
though there were seven years between us. When we came to the tribe on the Far 
Side of the Lake he was afraid of their dark skins and hair and their strange 
singing that was full of hoots and howls, and he ran from them. They kept me as 
guest, yet I was a prisoner, for they would not let me go into the forest to 
look for my brother. They sent a party of warriors to search for him, and when 
they returned they carried only the belt with the jeweled buckle which marked 
him as the son of a king. They told me he had been killed by a snake; Gwydyr did 
not know what a snake is, for we have none in Gwynedd. They told me that he had 
called my name before he died, and that he had left me the Song of the King's 
Sons. And they buried him out in the forest. Without me, they buried my
81 
brother, and I do not even know the place where he is laid."
"That is the way of the People on the Far Side of the Lake," the old man said. 
"They fear the dead and try to escape the ancient terror."
"The ancient terror?"
Reschal looked at the tender sky of early morning. "That which went wrong. Once 
there were no evil spirits to blight the crops, to bring drought or flood. Once 
there was nothing to fear, not even death."
"And what happened to bring fear?"
"Who knows? It was so long ago. But is it not in Gwynedd, too?"
"It is in Gwynedd," Madoc replied soberly, "or brother would not have turned 
against brother. Yes, we too know what you call the ancient terror. Death, it is 
thought, or at least the fear of death, came with it. Reschal, I would that I 
knew where those across the lake had laid my brother, that I may say the prayers 
that will free his soul."
"It is their way to put the dead far from them and then to lose the place. They 
hide the dead, even from themselves, that their spirits may not come to the lake 
and keep the fish away."
"And your people?"
The old man pulled himself up proudly. "We do not fear the spirits of our dead. 
When there has been love during life, why should that change after death? When 
one of us departs we have a feast of honor, and then we send the spirit to its 
journey among the stars. On clear
82 
nights we feel the singing of their love. Did you not feel it last night?"
"I watched the stars-and I felt that they accepted me."
"And your brother? Did you feel his light?"
Madoc shook his head. "Perhaps if I could have found the place where they buried 
him . . ."
"You must let him go. For the sake of Zyll you must let him go."
"When will come the Old Man's daughter?" Madoc asked. "I left the People on the 
Far Side of the Lake to try to find my brother's grave, and in the forest I was 
quickly lost. For days I wandered, trying to make my way back, straying farther 
and farther from them. I was nearly dead when Zyll came hunting the healing 
herbs which are found only in the deepest part of the forest. When will come the 
Old Man's daughter? Where is found the heart's desire? Here, Reschal."
"You will let Gwydyr go to his place among the stars?"
"Does it call for tears or mirth? Shall we sing for death or birth?" Madoc sang 
softly. "I have shed my tears for the past. Today is for mirth. Why have you 
dragged me through tears again?"
"So that you may leave them behind you," Reschal said, and raised his withered 
arms to the sun. The lake, the shore, the rock, the forest behind, were bathed 
in golden light, and as though in response to Reschal's gesture there came a 
sound of singing, a strange wild song of spring and flowers and sunlight and 
growing
83 83
grass and the beating of the heart of all of those young and in love. And 
Madoc's tears were dried, and thoughts of his lost companions and brother 
receded as the singing filled him with expectancy and joy.
The children of the tribe came first, wearing chains of flowers which flapped 
against their brown bellies as they danced along. Madoc, shining with delight, 
turned from the children to the Old One. But Reschal's eyes were focused on the 
unseen distance across the lake and he was listening, not to the children, but 
to that sound for which he had been straining before. And now Madoc thought that 
he, too, heard a throbbing like a distant heartbeat. "Old One, I hear it now. 
What is it?"
Reschal gazed across the water. "It is the People Across the Lake. It is their 
drums."
Madoc listened. "We have heard their drums before, when the wind blows from the 
south. But today the wind blows from the north."
The old man's voice was troubled. "We have always lived in peace, the People of 
the Wind and those Across the Lake."
"Perhaps," Madoc suggested, "they come to my wedding celebration?"
"Perhaps."
The children had gathered around the rock and were looking expectantly at Madoc 
and Reschal. The Old One raised his arm again, and singing drowned out the 
steady beating of the drums, and the men and women of the tribe, ranging from 
coltish girls and boys to men and
84 84A Swiftly Tilting Planet
women with white hair and wrinkled skin, came dancing toward the great rock. In 
their midst, circled by a group of young women, was Zyll. She wore a crown on 
her head to match Madoc's, and a short skirt made entirely of spring flowers. 
Her copper skin glowed as though lit by the sun from within, and her eyes met 
Madoc's with a sparkle of love.
Nowhere, Madoc thought, could wedding garments be more beautiful, no matter how 
much gold was woven into the cloth, nor with how many jewels the velvets and 
satins were decorated.
The flower-bedecked crowd parted to let Zyll come to the rock. Madoc stooped for 
her upraised hands, and gently lifted her so that she stood between him and 
Reschal. She bowed to her father, and then began to move in the ritual wedding 
dance. Madoc, during the year he had spent with the Wind People, had seen Zyll 
dance many times before: at the birth of each moon; at the feast of the newborn 
sun in winter; at the spring and autumn equinox, dance for the Lords of the 
lake, the sky, the rain and rainbow, the snow and the wind.
But for the Wind Dancers, as well as for all the other Wind People with their 
various gifts, there was only one Wedding Dance.
Madoc stood transfixed with joy as Zyll's body moved with the effortless 
lightness of the spring breeze. Her body leapt upward and it seemed that gravity 
had no power to pull her down to earth. She drifted gently from sky to rock as 
the petals fall from flowering trees.
Then she held out her hands to Madoc, and he joined
85 85
in the dance, marveling as he felt some of Zyll's effortlessness of movement 
enter his own limbs.
At first, when Zyll had found Madoc half dead in the forest, and had brought him 
to the Wind People, they had been afraid of him. His blue eyes, his pale skin, 
reddened by exposure, his tawny hair, were unlike anything they had ever seen. 
They approached him shyly, as though he were a strange beast who might turn on 
them. As they became accustomed to his presence, some of the Wind People 
proclaimed him a god. But then his anger flashed like lightning, and though 
there were some who said that his very fieriness announced him the Lord of the 
storm, he would have none of their attempts to set him apart.
"Stay with your own wind gods," he commanded. "You have served them well, and 
you live in the light of their favor. I, too, will serve the Lords of this 
place, for it is their pleasure that I am still alive."
Gradually the Wind People began to accept him as one of themselves, to forget 
his outer differences. The Old One said, "It is not an easy thing to refuse to 
be worshipped."
"When people are worshipped, then there is anger and jealousy in the wake. I 
will not be worshipped, nor will I be a king. People are meant to worship the 
gods, not themselves."
"You are wise beyond your years, my son," Reschal said.
"My father did not want to be worshipped. But some of his sons did. That is why 
I am here."
86 
Across the lake the drums were silent.
The Old One watched Madoc and Zyll as their bodies slowly ceased the motions of 
the dance. Then he lifted Madoc's hand and placed it over Zyll's, and then put a 
hand on each of their heads. And as he did so, the sound of drums came again. 
Loud and close. Threatening.
A ripple went through the Wind People as they saw three dugout canoes 
approaching swiftly, each paddled by many men. Standing in the bow of the middle 
and largest dugout was a tall, fair-skinned, blue-eyed man.
With a glad shout Madoc leapt from the rock and ran to the water's edge. 
"Gwydyr!"
87 The fire with all the strength it hath
In the attic Meg lay quietly in bed, her eyes closed. Her hand continued to rub 
rhythmically against Ananda, receiving the tingling warmth. Behind her lids her 
eyes moved as though she were dreaming. The kitten stood up, stretched its small 
back into a high arch, yawned, and curled up at her feet, purring.
Charles Wallace-within-Madoc felt the young man's surge of joy at seeing his 
brother alive, the brother he had thought dead and buried in a forgotten part of 
the forest.
88 
The man in the dugout jumped overboard and ran splashing to shore.
"Gwydyr! You are alive!" Madoc held out his arms to his brother.
Gwydyr did not move into the embrace. His blue eyes were cold, and set close 
together. It was then that Madoc noticed the circlet around his brother's head, 
not of flowers, but of gold.
"Gwydyr, my elder brother." The joy slowly faded from the sunny blue of Madoc's 
eyes. "I thought you dead."
Gwydyr's voice was as cold as his eyes. "It was my wish that you should think 
so."
"But why should you wish such a thing!"
At the pain in Madoc's voice, Zyll dropped lightly from the rock and came to 
stand close by him.
"Did you not learn in Gwynedd that there is room for one king only?"
Madoc's eyes kept returning to Gwydyr's golden crown. "We left Gwynedd for that 
reason, to find a place of peace."
Gwydyr gestured behind him, and the drummers began to beat slowly on the taut 
skins. The paddles were rested and the men splashed into the shallow water, and 
pulled the dugouts onto the shore.
Gwydyr raised the corners of his lips into what was more a grimace than a smile. 
"I have come to claim the Old Man's daughter."
The sound of the drums was an aching pain in Madoc's
89 Tlie fire with all the strength it hath89
ears. "My brother, I wept for your death. I thought to rejoice to see you 
alive."
Gwydyr spoke with grim patience as though to a dim-witted child. "There is room 
for no more than one king in this place, little brother, and I, who am the 
elder, am that king. In Gwynedd I had no hope against six brothers. But here I 
am king and god and I have come to let the Wind People know that I reign over 
the lake and all the lands around. The Old Man's daughter is mine."
Zyll pressed against Madoc, her fingers tight on his arm.
Reschal spoke in his cracked voice. "The People of the Wind are people of peace. 
Always we have lived in amity with those Across the Lake."
Again Gwydyr's lips distorted into a smile. "Peace will continue as long as you 
give us half of your fish and half of all you hunt and if I take with me across 
the water the princess who stands beside my brother."
Zyll did not move from Madoc's side. "You come too late, Elder Brother. Madoc of 
Reschal and I have been made One."
"Madoc of Reschal. Ha! My laws are stronger than your laws." Gwydyr gestured 
imperiously. The men with the paddles pulled the blades off the shafts, and 
stood holding dangerously pointed spears.
A united cry of disbelief, then anger, came from the Wind People.
"No!" Madoc cried, outrage giving his voice such volume that it drowned out the 
beating of the drums, the
90 Swiftly Tilting Planet
shouting of the warriors with the spears, the anger of the Wind People. "There 
will be no bloodshed here because of the sons of Owain." He stepped away from 
Zyll and Reschal and confronted Gwydyr. "Brother, this is between you and me." 
And now he smiled. "Unless, of course, you are afraid of Madoc and need your 
savages with spears to protect you."
Gwydyr made an enraged gesture. "And what of your peaceable Wind People?"
Then Madoc saw that the festive garlands were gone from the young men, flung in 
a heap in front of the great rock. Instead of flowers they carried spears, bows 
and arrows.
Reschal looked at him gravely. "I have been hearing the war drums since last 
sundown. I thought it better to be prepared."
Madoc flung his arms wide. There was grim cornmand in his voice. "Put down your 
arms, my brothers. I came to you in peace. I will not be the cause of war."
The young men looked first at Madoc, then at the People Across the Lake, their 
spears threatening.
"Brother," Madoc said to Gwydyr, "have your men put down their spears. Or do you 
fear to fight me in fair combat?"
Gwydyr snarled an order, and the men on the shore behind him placed their spears 
carefully on the sand in easy reach.
Then the Old One nodded at the young men, and they, too, put down their weapons.
91 The fire with all the strength it hath91
Gwydyr shouted, "If we are to fight for the Old Man's daughter, little brother, 
I choose the weapon."
"That is fair," Madoc replied.
Zyll made a soft moan of anxiety and placed her hand on his arm.
"I choose fire," Gwydyr announced.
Madoc sang:
"Lords of water, earth, and fire, Where is found the heart's desired
"Fire it shall be, then. But in what form?"
"You must make fire, little brother," Gwydyr said. "If your fire cannot overcome 
mine, then I will be king of the Wind People as well as those Across the Lake, 
and I will claim the Old Man's daughter for my own." His close-set eyes 
flickered greedily.
Reschal walked slowly toward him. "Gwydyr, sixth son of Owain, pride has turned 
the light behind your eyes to ice, so that you can no longer see clearly. You 
will never take my daughter."
Gwydyr gave the old man a mighty shove, so that he fell sprawling on the beach, 
face down. Zyll screamed, and her scream was arrested in mid-air, to hang there.
Madoc sprang to help the old man, and bent down on one knee to raise Reschal 
from the sand. But his eyes followed the Old One's to a small pool of water in a 
declivity in the sand, and his movements, like Zyll's scream, were suspended. 
Only the reflection in the small pool of water moved. Gwydyr's face was 
quivering in the
92 
wind-stirred puddle, his face so like and so unlike Madoc's. The eyes were the 
same blue, but there was no gold behind them, and they turned slightly in to a 
nose pinched with cruelty and lust. This was not, Madoc thought, the brother who 
had come with him to the New World. Or was it? and he had never truly seen his 
brother before, only Gwydyr as he hoped him to be.
Ripples moved over the shallow oval and the reflection shimmered like the 
reflections in the soothsayers' scrying glass in Gwynedd.
Madoc had always feared the scrying glass; so he feared the small oval of water 
which reflected Gwydyr's face, growing larger and larger, and darker and darker, 
quivering until it was no longer the face of a man but of a screaming baby. The 
face receded until Madoc saw a black-haired woman holding and rocking the baby. 
'You shall be great, little Madog,' she said, 'and call the world your own, to 
keep or destroy as you will. It is an evil world, little Madog.' The baby looked 
at her, and his eyes were set close together, like Gwydyr's, and turned inward, 
just so, and his mouth pouted with discontent. Again the face grew larger and 
larger in the dark oval and was no longer the face of a baby, but a man with an 
arrogant and angry mien. 'We will destroy, then, Mother,' the man said, and the 
face rippled until it was a small, slightly pear-shaped sphere, and on the 
sphere were blotches of green and brown for land, and blue and grey for seas, 
and a soft darkness for clouds, and from the clouds came strange dark objects 
which fell upon the land and fell upon the sea, and where they fell, great 
clouds arose,
93 The fire with all the strength it hath93
umbrellaing over the earth and the sea; and beneath the bulbous clouds was fire, 
raging redly and driven wild by wind.
Gwydyr's voice rippled across the scrying oval of water. "I choose fire, little 
brother. Where is your fire?"
The flames vanished and the oval was only a shallow pool reflecting nothing more 
than the cloud that moved across the sun.
Time resumed, and Zyll's scream continued as though it had never been broken. 
Madoc raised Reschal from the beach, stepping into the oval as he did so, 
splashing the shallow water onto the sand. "Stand back, Old One," he said. "I 
will break the scry." And he stamped once more on the water left in the puddle, 
until there was not enough to hold the least reflection.
From the central dugout came one of the warriors, carrying a smoking brazier. 
Gwydyr took one of the spears and held the sharp end over the coals. "You must 
make your own fire, Madoc!" He laughed derisively.
Madoc turned to the rock where the young men had laid their chains of flowers. 
He gathered the flowers in his arms and placed them in a heap over the oval 
where the water had been. Then he took the crown of flowers from his head and 
added it to the garlands. As though responding to a signal, Zyll cast hers on 
the fragrant pile. One by one all the men, women, children of the Wind People 
threw their headpieces onto the heap of flowers, Reschal last of all.
"What do you think you're doing?" Gwydyr screamed,
94 94A Swiftly Tilting Planet
dancing about on the sand, thrusting his flaming spear at his brother.
Madoc leapt aside. "Wait, Gwydyr. You chose fire. You must let me fight fire 
with fire."
"You, you alone must make the fire. These are my rules."
Madoc replied quietly, "You were always one for making your own rules, Brother 
Gwydyr."
"I am the king, do you hear me, I am the king!" Gwydyr's voice rose 
hysterically.
Madoc, moving as though in a dream, pushed his brother's words aside, and 
focused the blue fire of his eyes on the great pyre of flowers. The scent of 
crushed blossoms rose like smoke. Madoc thrust his arms shoulder-deep into the 
garlands and pushed them aside so that once more he could see the oval. A thin 
film of water had bubbled up from the sand.
"No more of Gwydyr's nightmares," he commanded, staring fixedly at the water, 
which sparkled from the sun. The water rippled and shimmered and resolved itself 
once again into a mother holding a baby, but a different baby, eyes wide apart, 
with sunlight gleaming through the blue, a laughing, merry baby. "You will do 
good for your people, El Zarco, little Blue Eyes," the mother crooned. "Your 
eyes are an omen, a token for peace. The prayer has been answered in you, blue 
for birth, blue for mirth."
Then the oval broke into shimmering, and all that was reflected was the cloudy 
sky. Madoc looked heavenward then, and cried in a loud voice,
95 The fire with all the strength it hath95
"I, Madoc, in this fateful hour Place all Heaven with its poicer And the sun 
with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire with all the 
strength it hath . . ."
The sun burst from behind the clouds and shafted directly onto the garlands. The 
scent of roses mingled with the thin wisp of smoke which rose from the crushed 
petals. When the smoke was joined by a small tongue of flame, Madoc leapt toward 
his brother. "There is my fire, Gwydyr." He wrenched the spear from his brother 
and threw it with all his might into the lake. "Now we will fight in fair 
combat." And he clasped Gwydyr to him as though in love.
For time out of time the two brothers wrestled by the lake, both panting with 
exertion, but neither seeming to tire beyond the other. Their bodies swayed back 
and forth in a strange dance, and the People of the Wind and those Across the 
Lake watched in silence.
The sun completed its journey across the sky and dropped into the forest for the 
night's rest, and still the brothers held each other in an anguished grip and 
their breathing was louder than the wind in the trees.
The fire slowly consumed the garlands, and when there was nothing left but a 
handful of ashes, Madoc forced Gwydyr into the lake, and held him down under the 
water until rising bubbles told him that his brother was screaming for mercy. 
Then he raised him from the lake and water spewed from Gwydyr's mouth as dark as 
blood, and he hung limply in Madoc's arms.
96 0.6A Swiftly Tilting Planet
Madoc gestured to the People Across the Lake. "Bring out your boats and take 
your king back to your own land." His voice held scorn and it held pain and his 
blue eyes were softened by tears.
The three boats pushed into the water. The spear-oars were returned to their 
blades. Madoc dumped Gwydyr like a sack of grain into the center dugout. "Go. 
Never let us hear the sound of the war drums again." He reached into the canoe 
and took the golden circlet from Gwydyr's head and tossed it far out into the 
lake.
Then he turned his back on his brother and splashed ashore.
Zyll was waiting for him.
Madoc looked at her and sang,
"Lords of water, earth, and fire Lords of rain and snow and water, Nothing more 
do I aspire, For I have the Old Man's daughter, For I have my heart's desire."
And to him Zyll sang,
"Now we leave our tears for mirth. Now we sing, not death, but birth."
Madoc held her close in his arms. "Tomorrow I will mourn for my brother, for 
this death is far worse than the other. But tonight we rejoice."
The children lifted their voices and began to sing, and then all the People of 
the Wind were singing, and Reschal said softly to Madoc, "That which your 
brother
97 The fire with all the strength it hath97
wanted us to believe from the scry is part of his nightmare. Perhaps our dreams 
will be stronger than his."
"Yes, Old One," Madoc said, but he thought of the things he had seen falling 
from the sky, and the strange mushrooming clouds and the fire, and shuddered. He 
looked at the water that had seeped into the oval. But all that he saw was the 
smiling face of the moon.
The moon slipped behind the trees to join, briefly, her brother, sun. The stars 
danced their intricate ritual across the sky. The People Across the Lake looked 
at Gwydyr, and his golden crown was gone, and so was his power.
Madoc's arms encircled Zyll and he cried out in his sleep and tears slid through 
his closed eyelids and wet his lashes, and while he still slept, Zyll held him 
and kissed the tears away.
"Come," Gaudior said.
Charles Wallace stood by the unicorn, blinking. "Was it a dream?" He looked at 
the dark lake lapping the shore, at the tilted rock; it was empty.
Gaudior blew silver bubbles that bounced off his beard. "You were Within Madoc, 
deep Within this time."
"Madoc, son of Owain, king of Gwynedd. The Madoc of the book. And hasn't there 
been a recurring theory that Welsh sailors came here before Leif Ericson? . . . 
Something about Indians with blue or grey eyes . . ."
"You should know," Gaudior chided. "You were Within Madoc."
98 Swiftly Tilting Planet
"It can't all have been real."
"Reality was different in those days," Gaudior said. "It was real for Madoc."
"Even the fire among the garlands?"
"Roses often burn. Theirs is the most purifying flame of all."
"And the scry-what Madoc saw in the water-was that a kind of Projection?"
The light in Gaudior's horn flickered. "Gwydyr was on the side of evil, and so 
he was open to the Projections of the Echthroi."
"So the terrible baby was a Projection the Echthroi want to have happen?"
"I'm never entirely sure about Projections," Gaudior admitted.
"And there was the other baby . . ." Charles Wallace closed his eyes to try to 
visualize the scry. "The blue-eyed baby, the answer to prayer, who was going to 
bring peace. So he's equally possible, isn't he?"
"It's all very confusing"-Gaudior shook his mane- "because we move in different 
dimensions, you and I."
Charles Wallace rubbed his fingers over his forehead as he had done in Meg's 
room. "It's all in the book somewhere. Why am I being blocked on that book?" The 
unicorn did not reply. "A book against war, a book about the legend of Madoc and 
Gwydyr, who came from Wales to this land . . . and what else? I can't get it . . 
."
"Leave it alone," Gaudior advised.
Charles Wallace leaned against the unicorn, pressing his forehead against the 
silver hide, thinking out loud.
99 The fire with all the strength it hath99
"All we know is that a Welsh prince named Madoc did come to the New World with 
his brother Gwydyr and that Madoc married Zyll of the People of the Wind. 
Gaudior, if, unknowing, while I was Within Madoc I gave him the rune, would that 
have been changing a Might-Have-Been?"
The unicorn replied unhelpfully, "It's all very complicated."
"Or-did Madoc have the rune himself? How could he, if it came from Ireland and 
St. Patrick?"
Gaudior raised his head and pulled back the dark silver of his lips in a 
ferocious grimace, baring his dangerous teeth. But all he did was open his mouth 
and drink wind as though quenching a terrible thirst.
Charles Wallace looked about, and as he looked, the scene rippled like the 
waters in the scrying oval on the beach, and the lake receded until he was 
looking across a wintry valley, and the rock was no longer a slightly tilted 
table but the flat star-watching rock, thinly crusted with snow.
Gaudior lowered his head and licked wind from his lips. "Gwydyr did not stay 
with the People Across the Lake."
"I wouldn't think he would, but how do you know?"
Gaudior raised tufted brows. "I have just been talking with the wind. Gwydyr 
left the lake in disgrace, and moved southward, ending up in South America."
Charles Wallace clapped his hand to his forehead. "That's it! It's in the book, 
too. Gwydyr going to Patagonia. And Vespugia is part of Patagonia. And there was
100 iooA Swiftly Tilting Planet
a connection that was lost and had to be found, but what was it? I keep almost 
remembering, and then it's as if someone slams a door on my memory."
Gaudior sniffed. "Echthroi, probably. They'll try to block anything that might 
be a clue to the Might-Have-Been they don't want you to discover."
Charles Wallace nodded. "Mad Dog Branzillo was born in Vespugia. But right here, 
where we stand, Madoc came and married Zyll and made the roses burn for peace. 
What happened to the Wind People? Where are they now?"
"They were lovers of peace," Gaudior replied shortly. "Your planet does not deal 
gently with lovers of peace."
Charles Wallace sat on the rock, the thin rim of snow crackling beneath him. He 
put his head down on his knees. "I think I have to find out what the connection 
is between Wales and Vespugia, between Madoc and Gwydyr and Mad Dog Branzillo."
Meg stirred and opened her eyes. Her hand lay lightly on Ananda. "Such dreams, 
Fortinbras," she murmured, "such strange dreams." Her sleepy gaze drifted toward 
the clock and suddenly she was wide awake. "Ananda! For a moment I thought you 
were Fort. And it wasn't dreaming, was it? It was kything, but not clear and 
sharp, the way it was when Charles Wallace was Within Harcels. He was deeper 
Within Madoc, and so I have to dig deeper to find the kythe. And Charles wants 
me to find something out for him . . . but what?" She pushed her fingers through 
her hair, closed her eyes tightly, and
101 The fire with all the strength it hath101
concentrated, her hand pressing against Ananda. "Something about a lake . . . 
about burning roses . . . and two brothers fighting . . . yes . . . and Mad Dog 
Bran-zillo and Wales. That's it. He wants me to find a connection between Mad 
Dog Branzillo and Wales. And that hardly seems possible, much less likely." She 
listened to the sounds within the silence of the night, the sounds which were so 
familiar that they were part of the silence. The old house creaked comfortably. 
The wind brushed softly against the window. -Nobody's likely to be asleep, not 
tonight. And Sandy's a history buff. I'll go ask him.
She got out of bed, pushed her feet into furry slippers, and went downstairs. 
There was light shining under the door of the twins' room, so she knocked.
"What are you doing up, Sis?" Dennys asked. "You need your sleep."
"So do you, doc. I'm up for the same reason you are."
"I often study late," Dennys said. "What can we do for you?"
"What do you know about Vespugia?"
Dennys said, "With your hair down like that, you look about fifteen."
"I'm an old married woman. What about Vespugia?"
Sandy replied, "I was just reading about it in the encyclopedia. It's part of 
what used to be called Patagonia. Sort of between Argentina and Chile."
"Branzillo was born there?"
"Yes."
"Who colonized Vespugia?"
102 
"Oh, the usual mishmash. Spaniards, a few English, and a group from Wales while 
it was still part of Patagonia."
Madoc was from Wales. She asked carefully, "Wales- when was that?"
"There's a legend that some Welshmen came to North America even before Leif 
Ericson, and that one of them went south, looking for a warm climate, and 
eventually settled in Vespugia-or where Vespugia is now. But that's only legend. 
However, it's fact that in 1865 a party left Wales for Patagonia and settled in 
the open wastelands near the Chubut River."
"So maybe Mad Dog Branzillo has some Welsh blood in him?"
"It's perfectly possible, although Branzillo hardly sounds Welsh."
"What year did you say the group left Wales?"
"1865."
"Are those the only times Wales is mentioned in connection with Vespugia?"
"In this encyclopedia."
She thought for a minute. "AH right. What happened in 1865 that I ought to know 
about?"
Dennys said, "Meg, sit down if you're going to get Sandy to give you a history 
lesson. Is this something to do with being pregnant, like a passion for 
strawberries?"
"Raspberries. And I don't think it has much to do with being pregnant."
"Let me get The Time Tables of History." Sandy reached for the bookcase and 
pulled out a large and
103 The fire with all the strength it hath103
battered volume, and began turning the pages. "Aha. 1865. Appomatox was on April 
9, and Lincoln was assassinated on the fourteenth. The Civil War ended on May 
26."
"Quite a year."
"Yup. In England, Lord Palmerston died, and was succeeded as Prime Minister by 
Lord John Russell."
"I don't know much about him."
"And back to the once-more-United States, the Thirteenth Amendment abolished 
slavery."
"Would there have been slavery in Vespugia?"
"Not sure. Bolivar died in 1830, and his influence would likely have filtered 
through to Vespugia. So I doubt if there'd have been slaves."
"Well, good."
"Okay, and also in 1865 the Atlantic cable was finally completed. Oh, and here's 
something for you, Den: Lister caused a scandal by insisting on antiseptic 
surgery and using carbolic acid on a compound wound."
Dennys applauded. "You're almost as veritable an encyclopedia as Charles 
Wallace."
"Charles has it in his head and I have to look it up in a reference book. My 
sphere of knowledge is considerably more limited. Mendel came out with his law 
of heredity that year"-he peered down at the book again- "and the Ku Klux Klan 
was founded, and Edward Whymper climbed the Matterhorn. And Lewis Carroll wrote 
Alices Adventures in Wonderland."
"Indeed, 1865 was quite a year," Dennys said. "What have you learned, Meg?"
104 
"I think maybe a lot. Thanks, both of you."
"Get back into bed," Dennys chided. "You don't want to get chilled wandering 
around this drafty old barn in the middle of the night."
"I'm warm." She indicated her heavy robe and slippers. "I'm taking care. But 
thanks."
"If we made you some hot chocolate, would you drink it?"
"I'm off hot chocolate."
"Some consomme or bouillon?"
"No, thanks, really, I don't want anything. I'll get back into bed."
Sandy called after her, "And also in 1865 Rudyard Kipling was born, and Verlaine 
wrote Poemes saturniens, and John Stuart Mill wrote Augnste Cotnte and 
Positivism, and Purdue, Cornell, and the universities of Maine were founded."
She waved back at him, then paused as he continued, "And Matthew Maddox's first 
novel, Once More United, was published."
She turned back, asking in a carefully controlled voice, "Maddox? I don't think 
I've ever heard of that author."
"You stuck to math in school."
"Yeah, Calvin always helped me with my English papers. Did this Matthew Maddox 
write anything else?"
Sandy flipped through the pages. "Let's see. Nothing in 1866, 1867. 1868, here 
we are, The Horn of Joy."
"Oh, that," Dennys said. "I remember him now. I had to take a lit course my 
sophomore year in college, and
105 The fire with all the strength it hath105
I took nineteenth-century American literature. We read that, Matthew Maddox's 
second and last book, The Horn of Joy. My prof said if he hadn't died he'd have 
been right up there with Hawthorne and James. It was a strange book, 
passionately anti-war, I remember, and it went way back into the past, and there 
was some weird theory of the future influencing the past-not my kind of book at 
all."
"But you remember it," Meg remarked.
"Yeah, I remember it, for some reason. There was a Welsh prince whose brothers 
were fighting for the throne. And he left Wales with one of his brothers, and 
was shipwrecked and landed somewhere on the New England coast. There was more, 
but I can't think of it right now."
"Thanks," Meg said. "Thanks a lot."
Ananda greeted her joyfully at the head of the stairs. Meg fondled the dog's 
floppy ear. "I really would have liked something hot to drink, but I didn't want 
Sandy and Dennys coming up to the attic and staying to talk when we have to 
concentrate on kything with Charles Wallace." She got back into bed and Ananda 
jumped up beside her and settled down. The clock's hands had moved ahead fifteen 
minutes, the length of time she had spent with Sandy and Dennys. And time was of 
the essence. But she felt that the trip downstairs had been worth it. She had 
found the author and the title of the book for Charles Wallace. And she had 
found a connection between Wales and Vespugia in 1865. But what did
106 
the connection mean? Madoc was Welsh, but he didn't go to Vespugia, he came 
here, and married here.
She shook her head. Maybe Charles Wallace and Gaudior could make something out 
of it.
And how any of this could connect with Mrs. O'Keefe was a mystery.
107 The lightning with its rapid wrath
"Thanks, Meg," Charles Wallace whispered. "Oh, Gau-dior, she really did help us, 
she and the twins." He leaned forward to rest his cheek against the unicorn's 
neck. "The book was by Matthew Maddox. I don't think I ever read it, but I 
remember Dennys talking about it. And Mrs. O'Keefe was a Maddox, so she's got to 
be descended from Matthew."
"Descended," Gaudior snorted. "You make it sound like a fall."
"If you look at Mrs. O'Keefe, that's what it's like," Charles Wallace admitted. 
"1865. Can we go there?"
"Then," the unicorn corrected. "When. We can try, if
108 Swiftly Tilting Planet
you think it's important. We'll hope for a favorable wind."
Charles Wallace looked alarmed. "You mean we might get blown into another 
Projection?"
"It's always a risk. We know the Echthroi are after us, to stop us. So you must 
hold on."
"I'll hold on for dear life. The last thing I want is to get blown into another 
Projection."
Gaudior blew softly through his teeth. "I find our most recent information not 
very helpful."
"But it could be important, a group of Welshmen going to South America in 1865. 
I think we should try to go to Vespugia."
"That's a long way, and unicorns do not travel well to different Wheres. And to 
try to move in both space and time-I don't like it." He flicked his tail.
"Then how about trying to move to 1865, right here, the year Matthew Maddox 
published his first novel? Then we could try to move from 1865 here to 1865 in 
Vespugia. And maybe we could learn something from Matthew Maddox."
"Very well. It's less dangerous to go elsewhen first than to try to go elsewhen 
and elsewhere simultaneously." He began to gallop, and as he flung himself onto 
a gust of wind, the wings lifted and they soared upward.
The attack, just as they went through a shower of stars, was completely 
unexpected. A freezing gust blasted the wind on which they were riding, taking 
away Charles Wallace's breath. His knuckles whitened as he clenched
109 The lightning with its rapid wrath109
the mane, which seemed to strengthen into steel wire to help him hold his grasp. 
He had a horrible sense of Gaudior battling with a darkness which was like an 
anti-unicorn, a flailing of negative wings and iron hoofs. The silver mane was 
torn from his hands as he was assailed by the horrible stench which accompanied 
Echthroi. Dark wings beat him from the unicorn's back and he felt the burning 
cold of outer space. This was more horrible than any Projection. His lungs 
cracked for lack of air. He would become a burnt-out body, a satellite circling 
forever the nearest sun . . .
A powerful wrench, and air rushed into his battered lungs. He felt a sharp tug 
at the nape of his neck, and the blue anorak tightened against his throat. The 
agonizing stench was gone and he was surrounded by the scent of unicorn breath, 
smelling of stars and frost. Gaudior was carrying him in his mouth, great ivory 
teeth clamped on the strong stuff of the anorak.
Gaudior's iridescent wings beat against the dark. Charles Wallace held his 
breath. If Gaudior dropped him, the Echthroi would be waiting. His armpits were 
cut from the pulling of the anorak, but he knew that he must not struggle. 
Gaudior's breath gusted painfully from between clenched teeth.
Then the silver hoofs touched stone, and they were safely at the star-watching 
rock. Gaudior opened his teeth and dropped the boy. For the first moments 
Charles Wallace was so weak that he collapsed onto the rock. Then he struggled 
to his feet, still trembling from the
110 
near disaster. He stretched his arms to ease his sore armpits and shoulders. 
Gaudior was breathing in great, panting gusts, his flanks heaving.
The soft breeze around them filled and healed their seared lungs.
Gaudior rolled his lips, and took a deep draught of clear air. Then he bent down 
and nuzzled Charles Wallace in the first gesture of affection he had shown. "I 
wasn't sure we were going to get away. The Echthroi are enraged that the wind 
managed to send you Within Madoc, and they're trying to stop you from going 
Within anyone else."
Charles Wallace stroked the unicorn's muzzle. "You saved me. I'd be tumbling in 
outer space forever if you hadn't grabbed my anorak."
"It was one chance in a million," Gaudior admitted. "And the wind helped me."
Charles Wallace reached up to put his arms around Gaudior's curving neck. "Even 
with help, it wasn't easy. Thank you."
Gaudior made a unicorn shrug; his curly beard quivered. "Unicorns find it 
embarrassing to be thanked. Please desist."
It was a hot, midsummer's day, with thunderheads massed on the horizon. The lake 
was gone, and the familiar valley stretched to the hills. The woods was a forest 
of mighty elms and towering oaks and hemlock. In the far distance was what 
looked like a cluster of log cabins.
"I don't think this looks like 1865," he told Gaudior.
111 The lightning with its rapid wrath111
"You'd know more about that than I would. I didn't have much opportunity to 
learn earth's history. I never expected this assignment."
"But, Gaudior, we have to know When we are."
"Why?"
Charles Wallace tried to quell his impatience, which was all the sharper after 
the terror of the attack. "If there's a Might-Have-Been we're supposed to 
discover, we have to know When it is, don't we?"
Gaudior's own impatience was manifested by prancing. "Why? We don't have to know 
everything. We have a charge laid on us, and we have to follow where it leads. 
You've been so busy trying to do the leading that we almost got taken by the 
Echthroi."
Charles Wallace said nothing.
"Perhaps," Gaudior granted grudgingly, "it wasn't entirely your fault. But I 
think we should not try to control the Whens and the Wheres, but should go Where 
we're sent. And what with all that contretemps with the Echthroi, you're still 
in your own body, and you're supposed to be Within."
"Oh. What should I do?"
Gaudior blew mightily through flared nostrils. "I will have to ask the wind." 
And he raised his head and opened his jaws. Charles Wallace waited anxiously 
until the unicorn lowered his head and raised one wing, stretching it to its 
full span. "Step close to me," he ordered.
Charles Wallace moved under the wing and leaned against Gaudior's flank. "Did 
the wind say When we are?"
112 112A Swiftly Tilting Planet
"You make too many demands," Gaudior chided, and folded his wing until Charles 
Wallace felt smothered. Gasping for breath, he tried to push his way out into 
the air, but the wing held him firmly, and at last his struggling eeased.
When he opened his eyes the day had vanished, and trees and rock were bathed in 
moonlight.
He was Within. Lying on the rock, looking up at the moon-bathed sky. Only the 
most brilliant stars could compete with the silver light. Around him the sounds 
of summer sang sweetly. A mourning dove complained from her place deep in the 
darkest shadows. A grandfather frog boomed his bull-call. A pure trilling of 
bird song made him sit up and call out in greeting, "Zylle!"
A young woman stepped out from the shadows of the forest. She was tall and 
slender, except for her belly, which was heavy with child. "Thanks for meeting 
me, Brandon."
Charles Wallace-within-Brandon Llawcae gave her a swift hug. "Anything I do with 
you is fun, Zylle."
Again, as when he was Within Harcels, he was younger than fifteen, perhaps 
eleven or twelve, still very much a child, an eager, intelligent, loving child.
In the moonlight she smiled at him. "The herbs I need to ease the birthing of my 
babe are found only when the moon is full, and only here. Ritchie fears it would 
offend Goody Adams, did she know."
Goody, short for Goodwife. That's what the Pilgrims said, instead of Mrs. This 
was definitely not 1865, then.
113 The lightning with its rapid wrath113
More than a century earlier, perhaps even two centuries. Brandon Llawcae must be 
the son of early settlers . . .
"Let yourself go," Gaudior knelled. "Let yourself be Brandon."
"But why are we here?" Charles Wallace demurred. "What can we learn here?"
"Stop asking questions."
"But I don't want to waste time . . ." Charles Wallace said anxiously.
Gaudior whickered irritably. "You are here, and you are in Brandon. Let go."
Let go.
Be Brandon.
Be.
"So," Zylle continued, "it is best that Ritchie not know, either. I can always 
trust you, Brandon. You don't open your mouth and spill everything out when to 
do so would bring no good."
Brandon ducked his head shyly, then looked swiftly up at Zylle's eyes, which 
were a startling blue in her brown face. "I have learned from the People of the 
Wind that 'tis no harm to hold a secret in the heart."
Zylle sighed. "No, it is no harm. But it grieves me that you and I may not share 
our gifts with those we love."
"My pictures." Brandon nodded. "My parents want me to try not to see my 
pictures."
"Among my people," Zylle said, "you would be known as a Seer, and you would be 
having the training in prayer and trusting that would keep your gift very close 
to the
114 
gods, from whom the gift comes. My father had hoped that Maddok might have the 
gift, because it is rare to have two with blue eyes in one generation. But my 
little brother's gift is to know about weather, when to plant and when to 
harvest, and that is a good gift, and a needed one."
"I miss Maddok." Bran scowled down at the rock. "He never comes to the 
settlement any more."
Zylle placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. "It's different in the settlement 
now that there are more families. Maddok no longer feels welcome."
"I welcome him!"
"He knows that. And he misses you, too. But it isn't only that the settlement is 
larger. Maddok is older, and has to do more work at home. But he will always be 
your friend."
"And I'll always be his. Always."
"Your pictures-" Zylle looked at him intently. "Are you able to stop seeing 
them?"
"Not always. When I look at something that holds a reflection, sometimes the 
pictures come, whether I will or no. But I try not to ask them to come."
"When you see your pictures, it is all right to tell me what you see, the way 
you used to tell Maddok."
"Ritchie is afraid of them."
She pressed his shoulder gently. "Life has been nothing but hard work for 
Ritchie, with no time for seeing pictures or dreaming dreams. Your mother tells 
me that in Wales there are people who are gifted with the second
115 The lightning with its rapid wrath115
sight, and that these people may be feared for their gift but they are not 
frowned on."
"Ritchie says I would be frowned on. It is different here than in Wales. 
Especially since Pastor Mortmain came and built the church and scowled whenever 
Mad-dok visited the settlement or I went to the Indian compound."
"Pastor Mortmain would try to separate the white people from the Indians."
"But why?" Brandon demanded. "We were friends."
"And still are," Zylle assured him. "When did you last see a picture?"
"Tonight," he told her. "I saw the reflection of a candle on the side of the 
copper kettle Mother had just polished, and I saw a picture of here, this very 
place, but the rock was much higher, and there"-he pointed to the valley- "it 
was all a lake, with the sun sparkling on the water."
She looked at him wonderingly. "My father, Zillo, says that the valley was once 
a lake bed."
"And I saw Maddok-at least, it wasn't Maddok, because he was older, and his skin 
was fair, but he looked so like Maddok, at first I thought it was."
"The legend," she murmured. "Oh, Brandon, I feel we are very close, you and I. 
Perhaps it is having to keep our gifts hidden that brings us added closeness." 
While they were talking she had been gathering a small plant that grew between 
the grasses. She held the blossoms out to the moonlight. "I know where to find 
the healing herbs, herbs that will keep babies from choking to death
116 n6A Swiftly Tilting Planet
in the winter, or from (lying of the summer sickness when the weather is hot and 
heavy as it is now. But your mother warns me that I must not offer these gifts; 
they would not be well received. But for myself, and the birthing of Ritchie's 
and my baby, I will not be without the herbs which will help give me a good 
birthing and a fine child." She began to spread the delicate blossoms on the 
rock. As the moonlight touched them, petals and leaf alike appeared to glow with 
inner silver. Zylle looked up at the moon and sang,
"Lords of fire and earth and water, Lords of moon and wind and sky, Come now to 
the Old Man's daughter, Come from fathers long gone Inj. Bring blue from a 
distant eye.
Lords of water, earth, and fire, Lords of wind and snow and rain, Give to me my 
heart's desire. Life as all life comes with pain, But blue will come to us 
again."
Then she knelt and breathed in the fragrance of the blossoms, took them up in 
her hands, and pressed them against her forehead, her lips, her breasts, against 
the roundness of her belly.
Brandon asked, "Do we take the flowers home with us?"
"I would not want Goody Adams to see them."
"When Ritchie and I were born, there wasn't a midwife in the settlement."
117 The lightning with its rapid wrath117
"Goody Adams is a fine midwife," Zylle assured him. "Had she been here, your 
mother might not have lost those little ones between you and Ritchie. But she 
would not approve of what I have just done. We will leave the birthing flowers 
here for the birds and moon and the wind. They have already given me their 
help."
"When-oh, Zylle, do you know when the baby will come?"
"Tomorrow." She stood. "It's time we went home. I would not want Ritchie to wake 
and find me not beside him."
Brandon reached for her long, cool fingers. "It was the best day in the world 
when Ritchie married you."
She smiled swiftly, concealing a shadow of worry in her eyes. "The people of the 
settlement look with suspicion on an Indian in their midst, and a blue-eyed 
Indian at that."
"If they'd only listen to our story that comes from Wales, and to your story-"
She pressed his fingers. "Ritchie warns me not to talk about our legend of the 
white man who came to us in the days when there were only Indians on this 
continent."
"Long ago?"
"Long, long ago. He came from across the sea, from a land at the other end of 
the world, and he was a brave man, and true, who lusted neither after power nor 
after land. My little brother is named after him."
"And the song?" Brandon asked.
"It's old, very old, the prayer for a blue-eyed baby to keep the strength of the 
prince from over the sea within
118 
the Wind People, and the words may have changed over the years. And I have 
changed, for I have made my life with the white people, as the Golden Prince 
made his with the Wind People. For love he stayed with the princess of a strange 
land, and made her ways his ways. For love I leave my people and stay with 
Ritchie, and my love is deep, deep, for me to be able to leave my home. I sing 
the prayer because it is in my blood, and must be sung; and yet I wonder if my 
child will be allowed to know the Indian half of himself?"
"He?"
"It will be a boy."
"How do you know?"
"The trees have told me in the turning of their leaves under the moonlight. I 
would like a girl baby, but Ritchie will be pleased to have a son."
The footpath through the grasses led them to a brook, which caught the light of 
the moon and glimmered in the shifting shadows of the leaves. The brook was 
spanned by a natural stone bridge, and here Zylle paused, looking down at the 
water.
Brandon, too, looked at their reflections shifting and shimmering as the wind 
stirred the leaves. While he looked at Zylle's reflection, the water stirring 
her mouth into a tender smile, he saw, too, a baby held close in her arms, a 
black-haired, blue-eyed baby with gold behind its eyes.
Then, while he gazed, the eyes changed in the child and turned sullen, and the 
face was no longer the face of a baby but the face of a man, and he could not 
see
119 The lightning with its rapid wrath119
Zylle anywhere. The man wore a strange-looking uniform with many medals, and his 
jowls were dark, jutting pride-fully. He was thinking to himself, and he was 
thinking cruel thoughts, vindictive thoughts, and then Brandon saw fire, raging 
fire.
His body gave a mighty shudder and he gasped and turned toward Zylle, then 
glanced fearfully at the brook. The fire was gone, and only their two faces were 
reflected.
She asked, "What did you see?"
Eyes lowered, gazing on the dark stone of the bridge, he told her, trying not to 
let the images reappear in his mind's eye.
She shook her head somberly. "I make nothing out of it. Certainly nothing good."
Still looking down, Brandon said, "Before I was made to feel afraid of my 
pictures, they were never frightening, only beautiful."
Zylle squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I'd like to tell my father about this 
one, for he is trained in the interpretation of visions."
Brandon hesitated, then: "All right, if you want to."
"I want him to give me comfort," she said in a low voice.
They turned from the brook and walked on home in silence, to the dusty clearing 
with its cluster of log cabins.
The Llawcaes' cabin was the first, a sizable building with a central room for 
sitting and eating, and a bedroom at either end. Brandon's room was a shed added 
to
120 
his parents' room, and was barely large enough to hold a small bed, a chest, and 
a chair. But it was all his, and Ritchie had promised that after the baby was 
born he would cut a fine window in the wall, as people were beginning to do now 
that the settlement was established. Brandon's cubbyhole was dark, but he was 
used to his own room's night and moved in it as securely as though he had lit a 
candle. Without undressing, he lay down on the bed. In the distance the thunder 
growled, and with the thunder came an echo, a low, rhythmic rumbling which 
Brandon recognized as the drums of the Wind People as they sang their prayers 
for rain.
In the morning when he wakened, he heard bustling in the central room, and went 
in to find his mother boiling water in the big black kettle suspended from a 
large hook in the fireplace. Goody Adams, the midwife, was bustling about, 
exuding importance.
"This is a first birth," she said. "We'll need many kettles of water for the 
Indian girl."
"Zylle is our daughter," Brandon's mother reminded the midwife.
"Once an Indian, always an Indian, Goody Llawcae. Not forgetting that we're all 
grateful that her presence among us causes us to live in peace with the savage 
heathen."
"They're not-" Brandon started fiercely.
But his mother said, "The chores are waiting, Brandon."
121 The lightning with its rapid wrath121
Biting his lip, he went out.
The morning was clear, with a small mist drifting across the ground and hazing 
the outline of the hills. When the sun was full, the mist would go. The settlers 
were grateful for the mist and the heavy dews, which were all that kept the 
crops from drying up and withering completely, for there had been no rain for 
more than a moon.
Brandon went to the small barn behind the cabin to let their cow out into the 
daylight. She would graze with the other cattle all day, and at dusk Brandon 
would ride out on his pony to bring her home for milking. He gave the pony some 
oats, then fed the horse. In the distance he could hear hammering. Goodman 
Llawcae and his son Ritchie were the finest carpenters for many miles around, 
and were always busy with orders.
-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.
122 122A Swiftly Tilting Planet
"Your father needs you, Ritchie. Zylle is resting now, between pains. I will 
call you at once should she need
yy
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
123 The lightning with its rapid wrath123
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.
124 124A Swiftly Tilting Planet
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?"
125 The lightning with its rapid wrath125
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.
126 
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."
127 The lightning with its rapid wrath127
"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," Bran-don said.
"Not yet. But there is talk 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."
128 
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
129 The lightning with its rapid wrath129
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 
any-
130 
how. 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.
131 The lightning with its rapid wrath131
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 Duth-bert. 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
132 
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 Llawcaes' cabin, bringing with him 
his son, Duthbert, and Goodman Higgins. "We would speak with the Indian woman."
133 The lightning with its rapid wrath133
"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
134 
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."
Pastor Mortmain said, "Goody Adams tells us the cat is to help you fly through 
the air."
Duthbert's mouth dropped slightly, and Ritchie shouted with outrage. But Zylle 
silenced him with a gesture, asking, "Does your cat help you to fly through the 
air, Pastor Mortmain? No more does mine. The gift of flying through the air is 
given to only the most holy of people, and I am only a woman like other women."
"Stop, child," Goodman Higgins ordered, "before you condemn yourself."
"Are you a true Indian?" Pastor Mortmain demanded.
She nodded. "I am of the People of the Wind."
"Indians do not have blue eyes."
"You have heard our legend."
135 The lightning with its rapid wrath135
"Legend?"
"Yes. Though we believe it to be true. My father has the blue eyes, too, as does 
my little brother."
"Lies!" Pastor Mortmain cried. "Storytelling is of the devil."
Richard Llawcae took a step toward the small, dark figure of the minister. "How 
strange that you should say that, Pastor Mortmain. Scripture says that Jesus 
taught by telling stories. And he spake many things unto them in parables . . . 
and without a parable spake he not unto them. That is in the thirteenth chapter 
of the Gospel according to Matthew."
Pastor Mortmain's face was hard. "I believe this Indian woman to be a witch. And 
if she is, she must die like a witch. That, too, is in Scripture." He gestured 
to Goodman Higgins and Duthbert. "We will meet in church and make our decision."
"Who will make the decision?" Ritchie demanded, not heeding his father's warning 
hand. "All the men of the settlement, in fair discussion, or you, Pastor 
Mortmain?"
"Be careful," Goodman Higgins urged. "Ritchie, take
»
care.
"David Higgins," Richard Llawcae said, "our two cabins were the first in this 
settlement. You have known us longer than anyone else here. Do you believe that 
my son would marry a witch?"
"Not knowingly, Richard."
"You were here with us during the evenings when the Indians came to listen to 
our stories, and we heard their
136 
own legend that matched ours. You saw how the Indian legend and the Welsh one 
insured peace between us and the People of the Wind, did you not, now, David?"
"Yes, that is so."
Pastor Mortmain intervened. "Goodman Higgins has told me of the storytelling 
which preceded the sop of reading from Scripture."
"Scripture was never a sop for us, Pastor. Those early years were hard. Goody 
Higgins died birthing Davey, and after her death in one week three of David's 
children died of diphtheria, and another only a year later coughed his life 
away. My wife lost four little ones between Richard and Brandon, one at birth, 
the other three as children. We were sustained and strengthened by Scripture 
then, as we are still. As for the stories, the winter evenings were long, and it 
was a pleasant way to while away the time as we worked with our hands."
Goodman Higgins shuffled his feet. "There was no harm in the stories, Pastor 
Mortmain. I have assured you of that."
"Perhaps not for you," Pastor Mortmain said. "Come."
Goodman Higgins did not look up as he followed Pastor Mortmain and Duthbert out 
of the cabin.
Nightmare. Brandon wanted to scream, to make himself wake up, but he was not 
asleep, and the nightmare was happening. When he did his chores he was aware 
that Maddok was invisibly there, watching over him. Sometimes he heard him 
rustling up in the branches of a tree. Sometimes Maddok let Brandon have a 
glimpse of him behind a tree trunk, behind the corner of a barn
137 The lightning with its rapid wrath137
or cabin. But wherever he went, Maddok was there, and that meant that the 
Indians knew all that was happening.
A baby in the settlement died of the summer sickness, which had always been the 
chief cause of infant mortality during the hot months, but it was all that was 
needed to convict Zylle.
Pastor Mortmain sent to the town for a man who was said to be an expert in the 
detection of witches. He had sent many people to the gallows.
"And that's supposed to make him an expert?" Ritchie demanded.
The settlement crackled with excitement. It seemed to Brandon that people were 
enjoying it. The Higgins daughter walked along the dusty street with Duthbert, 
and did not raise her eyes, but Pastor Mortmain's son smiled, and it was not a 
pleasant smile. People lingered in their doorways, staring at Pastor Mortmain 
and the expert on witches as they stood in front of the church. Davey Higgins 
stayed in his cabin and did not come out, though the other children were as 
eager as their parents to join in the witch hunt.
It was part of the nightmare when the man from the city who had hanged many 
people gave Pastor Mortmain and the elders of the village his verdict: there was 
no doubt in his mind that Zylle was a witch.
A sigh of excitement, of horror, of pleasure, went along the street.
That evening when Brandon went to the common pasture to bring the cow home, one 
of the other boys spat
138 
on the ground and turned away. Davey Higgins, tying the halter on the Higgins 
cow, said, "It is the Lord's will that the witch should die."
"Zylle is not a witch."
"She's a heathen."
"She's a Christian. A better one than you are."
"She's a condemned witch, and tomorrow they take her to the jail in town, though 
she'll be brought back here to be hanged-"
"So we can all see." One of the boys licked his lips in anticipation.
"No!" Brandon cried. "No!"
Davey interrupted him. "You'd better hold your tongue, or I could tell things 
about you to make Pastor Mortmain condemn you as a witch, too."
Brandon looked levelly at Davey while the others teased him to tell.
Davey flushed. "No. I didn't mean anything. Brandon is my friend. It's not his 
fault his brother married a witch."
"How could you let them take Zylle and the baby away?" Brandon demanded of 
Ritchie and his parents. "How could you!"
"Son," Richard Llawcae said, "Zylle is not safe here, not now with feelings 
running high. There are those who would hang her immediately. Your brother and I 
are going to town tomorrow to speak to people we know there. We think they will 
help us."
But the witch-hunting fever was too high. There was
139 The lightning with its rapid wrath139
no help. There was no reason. There was only nightmare.
Goody Llawcae stayed in the town to tend Zylle and the baby; that much was 
allowed, but it was not through kindness; there were those who feared that Zylle 
might try to take her own life, or that something might happen to prevent them 
seeing a public hanging.
Richard and Ritchie refused to erect the gallows.
Avoiding their eyes, Goodman Higgins pleaded, "You must not refuse to do this, 
or you, too, will be accused. In the town they have convicted entire families."
Richard said, "There was another carpenter, once, and he would have refused to 
do this thing. Him I will follow."
There were others more than willing to erect a crude gallows. A gallows is more 
easily built than a house, or a bed, or a table.
The date for the hanging was set.
On the eve, Brandon went late to bring the cow in from the pasture, in order to 
avoid the others. When he got to the barn, Maddok was waiting there in the 
shadows.
"My father wants to see you."
"When?" Bran asked.
"Tonight. After the others are asleep, can you slip away without being seen?"
Bran nodded. "You have taught me how to do that. I will come. It has meant much 
to me to know that you have been with me."
"We are friends," Maddok said without a smile.
"Is it going to rain soon?" Brandon asked.
140 
"No. Not unless prayer changes things." "You pray every night. So do we." "Yes. 
We pray," Maddok said, and slipped silently into the woods.
In the small hours of the morning, before dawn, when he was sure everybody in 
the settlement would be asleep, Brandon left the cabin and ran swiftly as a 
young deer into the protecting shadows of the woods.
Maddok was standing at the edge of the forest, waiting. "Come. I know the way in 
the dark more easily than you."
"Zillo knows everything? You've told him?"
"Yes. But he wants to meet with you."
"Why? I'm still only a child."
"You have the gift of seeing."
Brandon shivered.
"Come," Maddok urged. "My father is waiting."
They traveled swiftly, Brandon following Maddok as he led the way, over the 
brook, through the dark shadows of the forest.
At the edge of the Indian clearing, Zillo stood. Maddok nodded at his father, 
then vanished into the shadows.
"You won't let it happen?" Brandon begged. "If Zylle is harmed, Ritchie will 
kill."
"We will not let it happen."
"The men of the settlement expect the Indians to come. They have guns. They are 
out of their right minds, and they will not hesitate to shoot."
141 The lightning with its rapid wrath141
"They must be prevented. Have you seen anything in a vision lately?"
"I have tried not to. I am afraid."
"No one knows you are here?"
"Only Maddok."
Zillo pulled a polished metal sphere from a small pouch and held it out to catch 
the light of the late moon. "What do you see?"
Brandon hesitantly looked into it. "This is right for me to do, when my father . 
. . ?"
Zillo's eyes were expressionless. "I have held this action in prayer all day. It 
is not your father's wish to deny a gift of the gods, and at this time we have 
no one in the tribe with the gift of seeing."
As Brandon looked, the light in the metal sphere shifted, and he saw clouds 
moving swiftly across the sky, clouds reflected in water. Not taking his eyes 
from the scrying metal he said, "I see a lake where the valley should be, a lake 
I have seen before in a picture. It is beautiful."
Zillo nodded. "It is said there was a lake here in long-gone days. In the valley 
people have found stones with the bones of fish in them."
"The sky is clouding up," Brandon reported. "Rain is starting to fall, 
spattering into the water of the lake."
"You see no fire?"
"Before, I saw fire, and I was afraid. Now there is only rain."
The severity of Zillo's face lifted barely perceptibly.
142 
"That is good, that picture. Now I will teach you some words. You must learn 
them very carefully, and you must make sure that you do not use them too soon. 
Only the blue-eyed children of the Wind People are taught these words, and never 
before have they been given to one not of the tribe. But I give them to you for 
Zylle's saving."
On the morning of the execution Zylle was returned to the settlement. Infant 
Brandon was taken from her and given to Goody Llawcae.
"He is too young to be weaned," Goody Llawcae objected. "He will die of the 
summer sickness."
"The witch will not harm her own child," Pastor Mortmain said.
It took six of the strongest men in the settlement to restrain Ritchie and 
Richard.
"Tie the witch's hands," the man from the city ordered.
"I will do it," Goodman Higgins said. "Hold out your hands, child."
"Show her no gentleness, Higgins," Pastor Mortmain warned, "unless you would 
have us think you tainted, too. After all, you have listened to their tales."
Goody Llawcae, holding the crying baby, said, "Babies have died of the summer 
sickness for years, long before Zylle came to dwell among us, and no one thought 
of witchcraft."
Angry murmurs came from the gathered people. "The witch made another baby die. 
Let her brat die as well."
Ritchie, struggling compulsively, nearly broke away.
Pastor Mortmain said, "When the witch is dead, you
143 The lightning with its rapid wrath143
will come back to your senses. We are saving you from the evil."
The people of the settlement crowded about the gallows in ugly anticipation of 
what was to come. Davey Higgins stayed in the doorway of his cabin.
Goodman Higgins and Pastor Mortmain led Zylle across the dusty compound and up 
the steps to the gallows.
Brandon thought his heart would beat its way out of his body. He felt a presence 
beside him, and there was Maddok, and he knew that the rest of the tribe was 
close
by-
"Now," Maddok whispered.
And then Brandon cried aloud the words which Zillo had taught him.
"With Zylle in this fateful hour I call on all Heaven with its power And the sun 
with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire with all the 
strength it hath, And the lightning with its rapid wrath-"
Thunderstorms seldom came till late afternoon. But suddenly the sky was cleft by 
a fiery bolt, and the church bore the power of its might. The crash of thunder 
was almost simultaneous. The sky darkened from a humid blue to a sulfurous 
dimness. Flame flickered about the doorway of the church.
The Indians stepped forward until the entire settlement was aware of their 
presence, silent and menacing. Several men raised guns. As Duthbert fired, 
lightning
144 144A Swiftly Tilting Planet
flashed again and sent Duthbert sprawling, a long burn down his arm, his bullet 
going harmlessly into the air. Flames wreathed the belfry of the church.
Zillo sprang across the compound and up the steps to the gallows. "No guns," he 
commanded, "or the lightning will strike again. And this time it will kill."
Duthbert was moaning with pain. "Put down the guns -don't shoot-"
Pastor Mortmain's face was distorted. "You are witches, all of you, witches! The 
Llawcae boy has the Indian girl's devil with him that he can call lightning! He 
must die!"
The Indians drew in closer. Maddok remained by Brandon. And then Davey Higgins 
came from the door of his cabin and stood on Brandon's other side.
Ritchie broke away from the men who were holding him, and sprang up onto the 
gallows. "People of the settlement!" he cried. "Do you think all power is of the 
devil? What we have just seen is the wrath of God!" He turned his back on the 
crowd and began to untie Zylle.
The mood of the people was changing. Richard was let loose and he crossed the 
dusty compound to Pastor Mortmain. "Your church is burning because you tried to 
kill an innocent woman. Our friends and neighbors would never have consented to 
this madness had you not terrified them with your fire and brimstone."
Goodman Higgins moved away from Pastor Mortmain. "That is right. The Llawcaes 
have always been God-fearing people."
The Indians drew closer.
Ritchie had one arm about Zylle. He called out again:
145 The lightning with its rapid wrath145
"The Indians have always been our friends. Is this how we return their 
friendship?"
"Stop them-" Pastor Mortmain choked out. "Stop the Indians! They will massacre 
us-stop them-"
Ritchie shouted, "Why should we? Do you want us to show you more compassion than 
you have shown us?"
"Ritchie!" Zylle faced him. "You are not like Pastor Mortmain. You have a heart 
in you. Show them your compassion!"
Zillo raised a commanding hand. "This evil has been stopped. As long as nothing 
like this ever happens again, you need not fear us. But it must never happen 
again."
Murmurs of "Never, never, we are sorry, never, never," came from the crowd.
Pastor Mortmain moaned, "The fire, the fire, my God, the church, the church is 
burning."
Ritchie led Zylle down the steps and to his mother, who put the baby into her 
daughter-in-law's waiting arms. Brandon, standing between Maddok and Davey, 
watched as his mother and Zylle, his father and brother, turned their backs on 
the burning church and walked across the compound, past their chastened 
neighbors, past the watchful Indians, and went into their cabin. He stayed, his 
feet rooted to the ground as though he could not move, while the people of the 
settlement brought ineffectual buckets of water to try to control the flames and 
keep the fire from spreading to the cabins around the church. He watched the 
belfry collapse, a belfry erected more to the glory of Pastor Mortmain than to 
the glory of God.
146 
And then he felt the rain, a gentle rain which would fall all day and sink into 
the thirsty ground, a rain which would continue until the deepest roots of plant 
and tree had their chance to drink. A rain which put out the fire before it 
spread to any of the dwellings.
Behind the three boys the People of the Wind stood silently, watching, as the 
people went slowly into their cabins. When there was no one left by the empty 
gallows except the three children, Zillo barked a sharp command and the Indians 
quickly dismantled the ill-built platform and gallows, threw the wood on the 
smoking remains of the church, and left, silently.
The horror was over, but nothing would ever be the same again.
When Brandon and Maddok went into the Llawcae cabin, Zillo was there, holding 
the baby. The kettle was simmering, and Goody Llawcae was serving herb tea, "to 
quieten us."
"I am angry." Ritchie looked past Brandon to his mother. "Your herbs will not 
stop my anger."
"You have cause to be angry," his father said. "Anger is not bitterness. 
Bitterness can go on eating at a man's heart and mind forever. Anger spends 
itself in its own time. Small Brandon will help to ease the anger."
Zillo handed the baby to Ritchie, who took his son and held him against his 
strong shoulder. Ritchie looked, then, at his brother. "Where did you get those 
words you called out just before the storm?"
147 The lightning with its rapid wrath147
"From Zillo."
"When?"
"Last night. He sent for me."
Zillo looked at Richard and Ritchie, his eyes fathomless. "He is a good lad, 
your young one."
Richard Llawcae returned Zillo's gaze, and put his arm lightly around Brandon's 
shoulders. "The ways of the Lord are mysterious, and we do not need to 
understand them. His ways are not our ways-though we would like them to be. We 
do not need to understand Brandon's gifts, only to know that they are given to 
him by God." He turned to the Bible and leafed through the pages until he had 
found the passage he wanted. "The Lord is faithful, who shall establish you, and 
keep you from evil. And the Lord direct your hearts into the love of God. Now 
the Lord of peace himself give you peace always by all means . . ."
Brandon, worn out by lack of sleep, by terror and tension, put his head down on 
his arms and slid into sleep, only half hearing as Ritchie said that he could 
not continue to live in the settlement. He would take Zylle and the baby and 
return to Wales, where they could start a new life . . .
The world was bleak for Brandon when Ritchie and Zylle and the baby left.
One day as he was doing his chores, Maddok appeared, helped him silently, and 
then together they went through the woods toward the Indian compound.
148 
Under the great shadowing branches of an oak, Mad-dok paused. He looked long at 
Brandon. "It is right that Zylle should have gone with Ritchie."
Brandon looked at Maddok, then at the ground.
"And it is right that you and I should become brothers. My father will perform 
the ceremony tonight, and you will be made one of the People of the Wind."
A spark of the old light appeared in Brandon's face. "Then no one can keep us 
apart."
"No one. And perhaps you will marry one of the People of the Wind. And perhaps 
our children will marry, so that our families will be united until eternity."
Brandon reached for Maddok's hands. "Until eternity," he said.
149 swiftness
And Charles Wallace was on Gaudior's back.
"I've read about the Salem trials, of course," he mused
aloud. "Is there-oh, Gaudior, do other planets have the
same kind of horror as ours?"
"There are horrors wherever the Echthroi go." "Brandon: he's younger than I. And 
yet-am I like
Brandon? Or is he like me?" "I do not think you would be accepted by a host who 
is
alien to what you are-Gwydyr, for instance." "I hate to think I caused Brandon 
so much pain-" "Do not take too much on yourself," Gaudior warned.
150 
"We don't know what would have happened had you not been Within Brandon."
"What did we learn Within? It's a strange triangle: Wales and here; Wales and 
Vespugia; Vespugia and here. It's all interconnected, and we have to find the 
connections-oh!" He stepped back from Gaudior with a startled flash of 
comprehension.
"What now?" Gaudior asked.
Charles Wallace's voice rose with excitement. "When Madoc is spelled the Welsh 
way, it's Madog! Get it?"
Gaudior blew a small bubble.
"Madog. Mad Dog. It's a play on words. Mad Dog Branzillo may really be Madog. El 
Rabioso. Mad Dog. It's a ghastly sort of pun. Madoc: Madog: Mad Dog."
The unicorn looked down his long nose. "You may have something there."
"So there's another connection! Gaudior, we have to go to Patagonia, to 
Vespugia. I understand that it isn't easy for unicorns to move in both time and 
space, but you've got to try."
Gaudior raised his wings and stretched them up toward the sky. "The last time we 
gave explicit directions to the wind, look what happened."
"We didn't get to 1865. But we did learn important things about Madoc's 
descendants."
"Is that all you remember?" The unicorn folded his wings.
"It's in the book, Matthew Maddox's-"
"Somehow or other," Gaudior said, "we are blundering closer and closer to the 
Might-Have-Been which the Ech-
151 The winds with their swiftness151
throi don't want us to get to, and the closer we get, the more they will try to 
prevent us. Already you have changed small things, and they are angry."
"What have I changed?"
"Don't you know?"
Charles Wallace bowed his head. "I tried to stop Harcels from seeing the ways of 
other men."
"And . . ."
"Zylle-I tried to stop them from hanging her. Would she have been hanged-without 
the rune?"
"There are many things unicorns do not feel they need to know."
"And there are some things we do need to know if we're to succeed in doing what 
Mrs. O'Keefe asked me to do." For a moment he looked startled, remembering 
Calvin's mother. "How strange that it should have come from Mrs. O'Keefe-the 
charge. And the rune."
"That should teach you something."
"It does. It teaches me that we have to go to Vespugia to find the connection 
between Mom O'Keefe and Mad Dog Branzillo."
The light in Gaudior's horn flickered rapidly.
"I know-" Charles Wallace stroked the unicorn's neck. "The Echthroi nearly got 
us when we were aiming for 1865 in our own Where. Perhaps we have to leave the 
star-watching rock and aim for 1865 in Patagonia, when the Welsh group arrived 
there. Perhaps they met Gwydyr's descendants. I think we have no choice now 
except to go to Patagonia."
"They may attack us again." Gaudior's anxious neigh
152 
broke into silver shards. "It might be a good idea for you to tie yourself to 
me. If the Echthroi tear you from my back again, it isn't likely that I'd be 
able to catch you a second time."
Charles Wallace looked all around him, carefully, and saw nothing but the woods, 
the rock, the valley, the mountains beyond. Then: "I know!" He slid off 
Gaudior's back to the rock. "I forgot to bring in the hammock this autumn. Meg 
usually does it. It's just a few yards along the path, between two old apple 
trees. It's a woven rope one, and it's hung on good stout laundry rope, from 
Mortmain's General Store-Mortmain! Gaudior, do you suppose-"
"We don't have time for suppositions," Gaudior warned. "Bind yourself to me."
Charles Wallace hurried along the path, with the unicorn following, prancing 
delicately as bare blackberry canes reached across the path and tore at his 
silver hide.
"Here we are. Mother likes the hammock to be far away from the house so that she 
can't possibly hear the telephone." He started untying one end of the hammock. 
The branches of the apple trees were bare of leaves, but a few withered apples 
still clung palely to the topmost branches. The earth around the trees and under 
the hammock smelled of cider vinegar and mulching leaves.
"Make haste slowly," Gaudior advised, as Charles Wallace's trembling fingers 
fumbled with the knots. The air was cold, and the unicorn bent his neck so that 
he could breathe on Charles Wallace's fingers to warm them.
153 The winds with their swiftness153
"Think only about untying the knots. The Echthroi are near."
Warmed by the unicorn's breath, the boy's fingers began to lose their stiffness, 
and he managed to untie the first knot. Two more knots, and one end of the 
hammock dropped to the leafy ground, and Charles Wallace moved to the second 
tree, where the hammock seemed even more firmly secured to the gnarled trunk. He 
worked in silence until the hammock was freed. "Kneel," he told the unicorn.
Charles Wallace dragged one end of the hammock under the unicorn, so that the 
heavy webbing was under Gaudior's great abdomen. With difficulty he managed to 
fling the rope up over Gaudior's flanks. He clambered up and bound the rope 
securely around his waist. "It's a good thing Mother always uses enough rope for 
five hammocks."
Gaudior whickered. "Are you tied on securely?"
"I think so. The twins taught me to make knots."
"Hold on to my mane, too."
«t*>
lam.
"I don't like this," Gaudior objected. "Are you sure you think we ought to try 
to go to Patagonia?"
"I think it's what we have to do."
"I'm worried." But Gaudior began to run, until he had gathered enough speed to 
launch himself.
The attack came almost immediately, Echthroi surrounding boy and unicorn. 
Charles Wallace's hands were
154 
torn from Gaudior's mane, but the rope held firm. The breath was buffeted out of 
him, and his eyelids were sealed tight against his eyes by the blasting wind, 
but the Echthroi did not succeed in pulling him off Gaudior's back. The rope 
strained and groaned, but the knots held.
Gaudior's breath came in silver streamers. He had folded his wings into his 
flanks to prevent the Echthroid wind from breaking them. Boy and unicorn were 
flung through endless time and space.
A cold, stenching wind picked them up and they were flung downward with a 
violence over which the unicorn had no control. Helplessly they descended toward 
a vast darkness.
They crashed.
They hit with such impact that Charles Wallace thought fleetingly, just before 
he lost consciousness, that the Echthroi had flung them onto rock and this was 
the end.
But the descent continued. Down down into blackness and cold. No breath. A 
feeling of strangling, a wild ringing in the ears. Then he seemed to be rising, 
up, up, and light hit his closed eyes with the force of a blow, and clear cold 
air rushed into his lungs. He opened his eyes.
It was water and not rock they had been thrown against.
"Gaudior!" he cried, but the unicorn floated limply on the surface of the 
darkness, half on his side, so that one of Charles Wallace's legs was still in 
the water. The boy bent over the great neck. No breath came from the silver 
nostrils. There was no rise and fall of chest, no beat of
155 The winds with their swiftness155
heart. "Gaudior!" he cried in anguish. "Don't be dead! Gaudior!"
Still, the unicorn floated limply, and small waves plashed over his face.
"Gaudior!" With all his strength Charles Wallace beat against the motionless 
body. -The rune, he thought wildly, -the rune . . .
But no words came, except the unicorn's name. "Gaudior! Gaudior!"
A trembling stirred the silver body, and then Gaudior's breath came roaring out 
of him like an organ with all the stops pulled out. Charles Wallace sobbed with 
relief. The unicorn opened eyes which at first were glazed, then cleared and 
shone like diamonds. He began to tread water. "Where are we?"
Charles Wallace bent over the beautiful body, stroking neck and mane in an 
ecstasy of relief. "In the middle of an ocean."
"Which ocean?" Gaudior asked testily.
"I don't know."
"It's your planet. You're supposed to know."
"Is it my planet?" Charles Wallace asked. "The Ech-throi had us. Are you sure we 
aren't in a Projection?"
Unicorn and boy looked around. The water stretched to the horizon on all sides. 
Above them the sky was clear, with a few small clouds.
"It's not a Projection." Gaudior whickered. "But we could be anywhere in 
Creation, on any planet in any galaxy which has air with oxygen and plenty of 
water. Does this seem to you like an ordinary earth ocean?" He shook
156 
his head, and water sprayed out from his mane. "I am not thinking clearly yet . 
. ." He gulped air, then regurgitated a large quantity of salt water. "I have 
drunk half this ocean."
"It looks like a regular ocean," Charles Wallace said tentatively, "and it feels 
like winter." His drenched anorak clung to his body in wet folds. His boots were 
full of water, which sloshed icily against his feet. "Look!" He pointed ahead of 
them to a large crag of ice protruding from the water. "An iceberg."
"Which direction is land?"
"Gaudior, if we don't even know what galaxy or planet we're on, how do you 
expect me to know where land is?"
With difficulty Gaudior stretched his wings to their fullest extent, so that 
they shed water in great falls that splashed noisily against the waves. His legs 
churned with a mighty effort to keep afloat.
"Can you fly?" Charles Wallace asked.
"My wings are waterlogged."
"Can't you ask the wind where we are?"
A shudder rippled along the unicorn's flanks. "I'm still half winded-the 
wind-the wind-we hit water so hard it's a wonder all our bones aren't broken. 
The wind must have cushioned our fall. Are you still tied on?"
"Yes, or I wouldn't be here. Ask the wind, please."
"Winded-the wind-the wind-" Again Gaudior shook water from his wings. He opened 
his mouth in his characteristic gesture of drinking, gulped in the cold, clear 
breeze, his lips pulled back to reveal the dangerous-
157 The winds with their swiftness157
looking teeth. He closed his eyes and his long lashes were dark against his 
skin, which had paled to the color of moonlight. He opened his eyes and spat out 
a great fountain of water. "Thank the galaxies."
"Where are we?"
"Your own galaxy, your own solar system, your own planet. Your own Where."
"You mean this is the place of the star-watching rock? Only it's covered by an 
ocean?"
"Yes. And the wind says it's midsummer."
Charles Wallace looked at the iceberg. "It's a good thing it's summer, or we'd 
be dead from cold. And summer or no, we'll die of cold if we don't get out of 
water and onto land, and soon."
Gaudior sighed. "My wings are still heavy with water and my legs are tiring."
A wave dashed over them. Charles Wallace swallowed a mouthful of salty water and 
choked, coughing painfully. His lungs ached from the battering of the Echthroid 
wind and the cold of the sea. He was desperately sleepy. He thought of travelers 
lost in a blizzard, and how in the end all they wanted was to lie down in the 
snow and go to sleep, and if they gave in to sleep they would never wake up 
again. He struggled to keep his eyes open, but it hardly seemed worth the 
effort.
Gaudior's legs moved more and more slowly. When the next wave went over them, 
the unicorn did not kick back up to the surface.
As water and darkness joined to blot out Charles
158 158A Swiftly Tilting Planet
Wallace's consciousness, he heard a ringing in his ears, and through the ringing 
a voice calling, "The rune, Chuck! Say it! Say the rune!"
But the weight of the icy water bore him down.
Ananda's frantic whining roused Meg. "Say it, Charles!" she cried, sitting 
bolt-upright. Ananda whined again, then gave a sharp bark. "I'm not sure I 
remember the words-" Meg pressed both hands against the dog, and called out,
"With Ananda in this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power And the sun 
with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire with all the 
strength it hath, And the lightning with its rapid wrath, And the winds with 
their swiftness along their path . . ."
The wind lifted and the whitecaps were churned into rolling breakers, and 
unicorn and boy were raised to the surface of the water and caught in a great 
curling comber and swept along with it across the icy sea until they were flung 
onto the white sands of dry land.
159 
Unicorn and boy vomited sea water and struggled to breathe, their lungs paining 
them as though they were being slashed by knives. They were sheltered from the 
wind by a cliff of ice onto which the sun was pouring, so that water was 
streaming down in little rivulets. The warmth of the sun which was melting the 
ice also melted the chill from their sodden bodies, and began to dry the 
unicorn's waterlogged wings. Gradually their blood began to flow normally and 
they breathed without choking on salt water.
Because he was smaller and lighter (and billions of years younger, Gaudior 
pointed out later), Charles Wal-
160 
lace recovered first. He managed to wriggle out of the still-soaking anorak and 
drop it down onto the wet sand. Then with difficulty he kicked off the boots. He 
looked at the ropes which still bound him to the unicorn; the knots were pulled 
so tight and the cord was by now so sodden that it was impossible to untie 
himself. Exhausted, he bent over Gaudior's neck and felt the healing sun send 
its rays deep into his body. Warmed and soothed, his nose pressed against wet 
unicorn mane, he fell into sleep, a deep, life-renewing sleep.
When he awoke, Gaudior was stretching his wings out to the sun. A few drops of 
water still clung to them, but the unicorn could flex them with ease.
"Gaudior," Charles Wallace started, and yawned.
"While you were sleeping," the unicorn reproved gently, "I have been consulting 
the wind. Praise the Music that we're in the When of the melting of the ice or 
we could not have survived." He, too, yawned.
"Do unicorns sleep?" Charles Wallace asked.
"I haven't needed to sleep in aeons."
"I feel all the better for a nap. Gaudior, I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For making you try to get us to Patagonia. If I hadn't, we might not have been 
nearly killed by the Echthroi."
"Apology accepted," Gaudior said briskly. "Have you learned?"
"I've learned that every time I've tried to control things we've had trouble. I 
don't know what we ought to do now, or Where or When we ought to go from here. I 
just don't know . . ."
161 
"I think"-Gaudior turned his great head to look at the boy-"that our next step 
is to get all these knots untied."
Charles Wallace ran his fingers along the rope. "The knots are all sort of 
welded together from wind and water and sun. I can't possibly untie them."
Gaudior wriggled against the pressure of the ropes. "They appear to have shrunk. 
I am very uncomfortable."
After a futile attempt at what looked like the most pliable of the knots, 
Charles Wallace gave up. "I've got to find something to cut the rope."
Gaudior trotted slowly up and down the beach. There were shells, but none sharp 
enough. They saw a few pieces of rotting driftwood, and some iridescent 
jellyfish and clumps of seaweed. There were no broken bottles or tin cans or 
other signs of mankind, and while Charles Wallace was usually horrified at human 
waste and abuse of nature, he would gladly have found a broken beer bottle.
Gaudior turned inland around the edge of the ice cliff, moving up on slipping 
sand runneled by melting ice. "This is absurd. After all we've been through, who 
would have thought I'd end up like a centaur with you permanently affixed to my 
back?" But he continued to struggle up until he was standing on the great 
shoulder of ice.
"Look!" Charles Wallace pointed to a cluster of silvery plants with long spikes 
which had jagged teeth along the sides. "Do you think you could bite one of 
those off, so I can saw the rope with it?"
Gaudior splashed through puddles of melted ice, lowered his head, and bit off 
one of the spikes as close to the
162 
root as his large teeth permitted. Holding it between his teeth he twisted his 
head around until Charles Wallace, straining until the rope nearly cut off his 
breath, managed to take it from him.
Gaudior wrinkled his lips in distaste. "It's repellent. Careful, now. Unicorn's 
hide is not as strong as it looks."
"Stop fidgeting."
"It itches." Gaudior flung his head about with uncontrollable and agonized 
laughter. "Hurry."
"If I hurry I'll cut you. It's coming now." He moved the plant-saw back and 
forth with careful concentration, and finally one of the ropes parted. "I'll 
have to cut one more, on the other side. The worst is over now."
But when a second rope was severed, Charles Wallace was still bound to the 
unicorn, and the plant was limp and useless. "Can you bite off another spike?"
Gaudior bit and grimaced. "Nothing really has to taste that disagreeable. But 
then, I am not accustomed to any food except starlight and moonlight."
At last the ropes were off boy and beast, and Charles Wallace slid to the 
surface of the ice cliff. Gaudior was attacked by a fit of sneezing, and the 
last of the sea water flooded from his nose and mouth. Charles Wallace looked at 
the unicorn and drew in his breath in horror. Where the lines of rope had 
crossed the flanks there were red welts, shocking against the silver hide. The 
entire abdominal area, where the webbed hammock had rubbed, was raw and oozing 
blood. The water which had flooded from Gaudior's nostrils was pinkish.
163 
The unicorn in turn inspected the boy. "You're a mess," he stated flatly. "You 
can't possibly go Within in this condition. You'd only hurt your host."
"You're a mess, too," Charles Wallace replied. He looked at his hands, and the 
palms were as raw as Gaudior's belly. Where the anorak and his shirt had 
slipped, the rope had cut into his waist as it had cut Gaudior's flanks.
"And you have two black eyes," the unicorn informed him. "It's a wonder you can 
see at all."
Charles Wallace squinted, first with one eye, then the other. "Things are a 
little blurry," he confessed.
Gaudior shook a few last drops from his wings. "We can't stay here, and you 
can't go Within now, that's obvious."
Charles Wallace looked at the sun, which was moving toward the west. "It's going 
to be cold when the sun goes down. And there doesn't seem to be any sign of 
life. And nothing to eat."
Gaudior folded his wings across his eyes and appeared to contemplate. Then he 
returned the wings to the bleeding flanks. "I don't understand earth time."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Time is of the essence, we both know that. And yet it will take weeks, if not 
months, for us to heal."
When the unicorn stared at him as though expecting a response, Charles Wallace 
looked down at a puddle in the ice. "I don't have any suggestions."
"We're both exhausted. The one place I can take you
164 
without fear of Echthroi is my home. No mortal has ever been there, and I am not 
sure I should bring you, but it's the only way I see open to us." The unicorn 
flung back his mane so that it brushed against the boy's bruised face with a 
silver coolness. "I have become very fond of you, in spite of all your 
foolishness."
Charles Wallace hugged the unicorn. "I have become fond of you, too."
Joints creaking painfully, Gaudior knelt. The boy clambered up, wincing as he 
inevitably touched the red welts which marred the flanks. "I'm sorry. I don't 
want to hurt you."
Gaudior neighed softly. "I know you don't."
The boy was so exhausted that he was scarcely aware of their flight. Stars and 
time swirled about him, and his lids began to droop.
"Wake up!" Gaudior ordered, and he opened his eyes to a world of starlit 
loveliness. The blurring of his vision had cleared, and he looked in awe at a 
land of snow and ice; he felt no cold, only the tenderness of a soft breeze 
which touched his cuts and bruises with healing gentleness. In tlit- violet sky 
hung a sickle moon, and a smaller, higher moon, nearly full. Mountains heaved 
snow-clad shoulders skyward. Between the ribs of one of the foothills he saw 
what appeared to be a pile of enormous eggs.
Caudior followed his gaze. "The hatching grounds. It has been seen by no other 
human eyes."
"I didn't know unicorns came from eggs," the boy said wonderingly.
"Not all of us do," Gaudior replied casually. "Only the
165 
time travelers." He took in great draughts of moonlight, then asked, "Aren't you 
thirsty?"
Charles Wallace's lips were cracked and sore. His mouth was parched. He looked 
longingly at the moonlight and tentatively opened his mouth to it. He felt a 
cool and healing touch on his lips, but when he tried to swallow he choked.
"I forgot," Gaudior said. "You're human. In my excitement at being home it 
slipped my mind." He cantered off to one of the foothills and returned with a 
long blue-green icicle held carefully in his teeth. "Suck it slowly. It may 
sting at first, but it has healing properties."
The cool drops trickled gently down the boy's parched throat, like rays of 
moonlight, and at the same time that they cooled the burning, they warmed his 
cold body. He gave his entire concentration to the moonsicle, and when he had 
finished the last healing drops he turned to thank Gaudior.
The unicorn was rolling in the snow, his legs up in the air, rolling and 
rolling, a humming of sheer pleasure coming from his throat. Then he stood up 
and shook himself, flinging splashes of snow in all directions. The red welts 
were gone; his hide was smooth and glistening perfection. He looked at the sore 
places on Charles Wallace's waist and hands. "Roll, the way I did," he ordered.
Charles Wallace threw himself into the snow, which was like no other snow he had 
ever felt; each flake was separate and tingly; it was cool but not chilling, and 
he felt healing move not only over the rope burns but deep within his sore 
muscles. He rolled over and over, laugh-
166 
ing with delight. Then came a moment when he knew that he was completely healed, 
and he jumped up. "Gaudior, where is everybody? all the other unicorns?"
"Only the time travelers come to the hatching grounds, and during the passage of 
the small moon they can be about other business, tor the small moon casts its 
warmth on the eggs. I brought you here, to this place, and at this moon, so we'd 
be alone."
"But why should we be alone?"
"If the others saw you they'd fear for their eggs."
Charles Wallace's head came barely halfway up the unicorn's haunches. "Creatures 
your size would be afraid of me?"
"Size is immaterial. There are tiny viruses which are deadly."
"Couldn't you tell them I'm not a virus and I'm not deadly?"
Gaudior blew out a gust of air. "Some of them think mankind is deadly."
Charles Wallace, too, sighed, and did not reply.
Gaudior nuzzled his shoulder. "Those of us who have been around the galaxies 
know that such thinking is foolish. It's always easy to blame others. And I have 
learned, being with you, that many of my preconceptions about mortals were 
wrong. Are you ready?"
Charles Wallace held out his hands to the unicorn. "Couldn't I see one of the 
eggs hatch?"
"They won't be ready until the rising of the third moon, unless . . ." Gaudior 
moved closer to the clutch, each egg almost as long as the boy was tall. "Wait-" 
The
167 
unicorn trotted to the great globular heap, which shone with inner luminosity, 
like giant moonstones. Gaudior bent his curved neck so that his mane brushed 
softly over the surface of the shells. With his upper teeth he tapped gently on 
one, listening, ears cocked, the short ear-hairs standing up and quivering like 
antennae. After a moment he moved on to another shell, and then another, with 
unhurried patience, until he tapped on one shell twice, thrice, then drew back 
and nodded at the boy.
This egg appeared to have rolled slightly apart from the others, and as Charles 
Wallace watched, it quivered, and rolled even farther away. From inside the 
shell came a sound of tapping, and the egg began to glow. The tapping 
accelerated and the shell grew so bright the boy could scarcely look at it. A 
sharp cracking, and a flash of brilliance as the horn thrust up and out into the 
pearly air, followed by a head with the silver mane clinging damply to neck and 
forehead. Dark silver-lashed eyes opened slowly, and the baby unicorn looked 
around, its eyes reflecting the light of the moons as it gazed on its fresh new 
environment. Then it wriggled and cracked the rest of the shell. As fragments of 
shell fell onto the snowy ground they broke into thousands of flakes, and the 
shell became one with the snow.
The baby unicorn stood on new and wobbly legs, neighing a soft moonbeam sound 
until it gained its balance. It stood barely as tall as Charles Wallace, testing 
one forehoof, then the other, and kicking out its hind legs. As Charles Wallace 
watched, lost in delight, the baby unicorn danced under the light of the two 
moons.
168 
Then it saw Gaudior, and came prancing over to the big unicorn; by slightly 
lowering the horn it could have run right under the full-grown beast.
Gaudior nuzzled the little one's head just below the horn. Again the baby 
pranced with pleasure, and Gaudior began to dance with it, leading the fledgling 
in steps ever more and more intricate. When the baby began to tire, Gaudior 
slowed the steps of the dance and raised his head to the sickle moon, drew back 
his lips in an exaggerated gesture, and gulped moonlight.
As the baby had been following Gaudior in the steps of the dance, so it imitated 
him now, eagerly trying to drink moonlight, the rays dribbling from its young 
and inexperienced lips and breaking like crystal on the snow. Again it tried, 
looking at Gaudior, until it was thirstily and tidily swallowing the light as it 
was tipped out from the curve of the moon.
Gaudior turned to the nearly full moon, and again with exaggerated gestures 
taught the little one to drink. When its flanks were quivering with fullness, 
Gaudior turned to the nearest star, and showed it the pleasures of finishing a 
meal by quenching its thirst with starlight. The little one sipped contentedly, 
then closed its mouth with its tiny, diamond-like teeth, and, replete, leaned 
against Gaudior.
Only then did it notice Charles Wallace. With a leap of startlement, it landed 
on all four spindly legs, squealed in terror and galloped away, tail streaming 
silver behind it.
Charles Wallace watched the little creature disappear over the horizon. "I'm 
sorry I frightened it. Will it be all right?"
169 169
Gaudior nodded reassuringly. "It's gone in the direction of the Mothers. They'll 
tell it you're only a bad dream it had coming out of the shell, and it'll forget 
all about you." He knelt.
Reluctantly Charles Wallace mounted and sat astride the great neck. Holding on 
to a handful of mane, he looked about at the wild and peaceful landscape. "I 
don't want to leave."
"You human beings tend to want good things to last forever. They don't. Not 
while we're in time. Do you have any instructions for me?"
"I'm through with instructions. I don't even have any suggestions."
"We'll go Where and When the wind decides to take us, then?"
"What about Echthroi?" Charles Wallace asked fearfully.
"Because we're journeying from the home place the wind should be unmolested, as 
it was when we came here. After that we'll see. We've been in a very deep sea, 
and I never thought we'd get out of it. Try not to be afraid. The wind will give 
us all the help it can." The wings stretched to their full span and Gaudior flew 
up between the two moons, and away from the unicorn hatching grounds.
Meg sighed with delight.
"Oh, Ananda, Ananda, that was the most beautiful kythe! How I wish Charles 
Wallace could have stayed there longer, where he's safe . . ."
170 
Ananda whined softly.
"I know. He has to leave. But the Echthroi are after him, and I feel so helpless 
. . ."
Ananda looked up at Meg, and the tufts of darker fur above the eyes lifted.
Meg scratched the dog between the ears. "We did send him the rune when he was in 
the Ice Age sea, and the wind came to help." Anxiously she placed her hand on 
Ananda, and closed her eyes, concentrating.
She saw the star-watching rock, and two children, a girl and a boy, perhaps 
thirteen and eleven, the girl the elder. The boy looked very much like a modern 
Brandon Llawcae, a Brandon in blue jeans and T-shirt-so it was definitely not 
1865.
Charles Wallace was Within the boy, whose name was not Brandon.
Chuck.
Mrs. O'Keefe had called Charles Wallace Chuck.
Chuck was someone Mrs. O'Keefe knew. Someone Mrs. O'Keefe had said was not an 
idiot.
Now he was with a girl, yes, and someone else, an old woman. Chuck Maddox, and 
his sister, Beezie, and their grandmother. They were laughing, and blowing 
dandelion clocks, counting the breaths it took for the lacy white spores to 
leave the green stem.
Beezie Maddox had golden hair and bright blue eyes and a merry laugh. Chuck was 
more muted, his hair a soft brown, his eyes blue-grey. He smiled more often than 
laughed. He was so much like Brandon that Meg was sure he must be a direct 
descendant.
171 171
"Ananda, why am I so terribly frightened for him?" Meg asked.
"Let's blow dandelion clocks," Beezie had suggested.
"Not around the store you don't," their father had said. "Ill not have my patch 
of lawn seeded with more dandelion spore than blows here on its own."
So Chuck and Beezie and the grandmother came on a Sunday afternoon, across the 
brook, along to the flat rock. In the distance they could hear the sound of 
trucks on the highway, although they could not see them. Occasionally a plane 
tracked across the sky. Otherwise, there was nothing to remind them of 
civilization, and this was one of the things Chuck liked best about crossing the 
brook and walking through the woods to the rock.
Beezie handed him a dandelion. "Blow."
Chuck did not much like the smell of the spore; it was heavy and rank, and he 
wrinkled his nose with distaste.
"It doesn't smell all that bad to me," Beezie said. "When I squish the stem it 
smells green, that's all."
The grandmother held the snowy fronds to her nose. "When you're old, nothing 
smells the way it used to." She blew, and the white snowflakes of her dandelion 
flew in all directions, drifting on the wind.
Chuck and his sister had to blow several times before the clock told its time. 
The grandmother, who was quickly out of breath, and who had pressed her hand 
against her heart as she struggled up the fern-bordered path from the brook, 
blew lightly, and all the spores flew
172 
from the stem, danced in the sunny air, and slowly settled.
Chuck looked at Beezie, and Beezie looked at Chuck.
"Grandma, Beezie and I huff and puff and you blow no stronger than a whisper and 
it all blows away."
"Maybe you blow too hard. And when you ask the time, you mustn't fear the 
answer."
Chuck looked at the bare green stem in his grandmother's fingers. "I blew four 
times, and it isn't nearly four yet. What time does your dandelion tell, 
Grandma?"
The spring sun went briefly behind a small cloud, veiling the old woman's eyes. 
"It tells me of time past, when the valley was a lake, your pa says, and a 
different people roamed the land. Do you remember the arrowhead you found when 
we were digging to plant tulip bulbs?" Deftly she changed the subject.
"Beezie and I've found lots of arrowheads. I always carry one. It's better'n a 
knife." He pulled the flat chipped triangle from his jeans pocket.
Beezie wore jeans, too, thin where her sharp knees were starting to push through 
the cloth. Her blue-and-white-checked shirt was just beginning to stretch 
tightly across her chest. She dug into her pockets like her brother, pulling out 
an old Scout knife and a bent spoon. "Grandma, blowing the dandelion 
clocks-that's just superstition, isn't it?"
"And what else would it be? Better ways there are of telling the time, like the 
set of the sun in the sky and the shadows of the trees. I make it out to be nigh 
three in the afternoon, and near time to go home for a cup of tea."
173 173
Beezie lay back on the warm ledge of rock, the same kind of rock from which the 
arrowhead had been chipped. "And Ma and Pa'11 have tea with us because it's 
Sunday, and the store's closed, and nobody in it but Pansy. Grandma, I think 
she's going to have kittens again."
"Are you after being surprised? What else has Pansy to do except frighten the 
field mice away."
Despite the mention of tea, Chuck too lay back, putting his head in his 
grandmother's lap so she could ruffle his hair. Around them the spring breeze 
was gentle; the leaves whispered together; and in the distance a phoebe called 
wistfully. The roaring of a truck on the distant highway was a jarring note.
The grandmother said, "When we leave the village and cross the brook it's almost 
as though we crossed out of time, too. And then there comes the sound of the 
present"-she gestured toward the invisible highway-"to remind us."
"What of, Grandma?" Beezie asked.
The old woman looked into an unseen distance. "The world of trucks isn't as real 
to me as the world on the other side of time."
"Which side?" Chuck asked.
"Either side, though at the present I know more about the past than the future."
Beezie's eyes lit up. "You mean like in the stories you tell us?"
The grandmother nodded, her eyes still distant.
"Tell us one of the stories, Grandma. Tell us how
174 
Queen Branwen was taken from Britain by an Irish king."
The old woman's focus returned to the children. "I may have been born in 
Ireland, but we never forgot we came from Branwen of Britain."
"And I'm named after her."
"That you are, wee Beezie, and after me, for I'm Branwen, too."
"And Zillah? I'm Branwen Zillah Maddox." Beezie and Chuck knew the stories of 
their names backwards and forwards but never lost pleasure in hearing them.
Meg opened her eyes in amazement. Branwen Zillah Maddox. B.Z. Beezie. Mrs. 
O'Keefe.
That golden child was Mrs. O'Keefe. And Chuck was her brother.
"Zillah comes from your Maddox forebears," the grandmother told the children, 
"and a proud name it is, too. She was an Indian princess, according to your pa, 
from the tribe which used to dwell right here where we be now, though the 
Indians are long gone."
"But you don't know as much about Zillah as you do about Branwen."
"Only that she was an Indian and beautiful. There are too many men on your 
father's side of the family, and stories come down, nowadays, through women. But 
in Branwen's day there were men who were bards."
"What's bards?" Chuck asked.
"Singers of songs and tellers of tales. Both my grandma
175 175
and my grandpa told me the story of Branwen, but mostly my grandma, over and 
over, and her grandma told her before that, and the telling goes back beyond 
memory. Britain and Ireland have long misunderstood each other, and this 
misunderstanding goes back beyond memory, too. And in the once upon a time and 
long ago when the Irish king wooed the English princess, 'twas thought there 
might at last be peace between the two green and pleasant lands. There was 
feasting for many moons at the time of the nuptials, and then the Irish king 
sailed for Ireland with his wife."
"Wouldn't Branwen have been homesick?" Beezie asked.
"And of course she'd have been homesick. But she was born a princess and now she 
was a queen, and queens know how to mind their manners-or did in those days."
"And the king? What was he like?"
"Oh, and handsome he was, as the Irish can be, as was my own sweet Pat, who bore 
well the name of the blessed saint, with black hair and blue eyes. Branwen knew 
not that he was using her to vent his spleen against her land and her brethren, 
knew it not until he trumped up some silly story of her sitting in the refectory 
and casting her eye on one of his men. So, to punish her-"
"For what?" Chuck asked.
"For what, indeed? For his own jealous fantasies. So, to punish her, he sent her 
to tend the swine and barred her from the palace. So she knew he had never loved 
her, and her heart burned within her with anguish. Then she thought to call on 
her brother in England, and she used
176 
the rune, and whether she and hers gave the rune to Patrick, or whether their 
guardian angels gave it to each of them, she called on all Heaven with its 
power-" The children chanted the rune with her.
"And the sun with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And the fire 
with all the strength it hath, And the lightning with its rapid wrath, And the 
winds with their swiftness along their path, And the sea with its deepness, And 
the rocks with their steepness, And the earth with its starkness, All these I 
place
By God's almighty help and grace Between myself and the powers of darkness!"
The grandmother continued, "And the sun shone on her fair hair and warmed her, 
and the gentle snow fell and made all clean the sty in which the Irish king had 
set her, and the fire burst from the fireplace of his wooden palace and the 
lightning struck it and it burned with mighty rage and all within fled the fury. 
And the wind blew from Britain and the sails of her brother Bran's ship billowed 
as it sped over the deep sea and landed where the rocks were steep and the earth 
stark. And Bran's men scaled the rock and rescued their beloved Branwen."
"Is it a true story, Grandma," Beezie asked, "really?"
"To those with the listening ear and the believing heart."
"Chuck has the believing heart," Beezie said.
The grandmother patted his knee. "One day maybe
177 177
you will be the writer your father wanted to be. He was not cut out for a 
storekeeper."
"I love the store," Beezie said defensively. "It smells good, of cinnamon and 
fresh bread and apples."
"I'm hungry," Chuck said.
"And wasn't I after saying before we got into storytell-ing that we should get 
along home for tea? Pull me up, both of you."
Chuck and Beezie scrambled to their feet and heaved the old woman upright. 
"We'll pick a bouquet for Ma and Pa on the way," Beezie said.
The narrow path was rough with rocks and hummocks of grass, and walking was not 
easy. The grandmother leaned on a staff which Chuck had cut for her from a grove 
of young maples which needed thinning. He went ahead, slowing down when he saw 
Beezie and his grandmother lagging behind him. A bouquet of field flowers was 
growing in Beezie's hands, for she paused whenever she saw that the old woman 
was out of breath. "Look, Chuck! Look, Grandma! Three more jacks-in-the-pulpit!"
Chuck was hacking away with his arrowhead at a strand of bittersweet snaking 
around a young fir tree, strangling it with coils strong as a boa constrictor's. 
"Ma used to have us looking for bittersweet a year or so ago, and now it's 
taking over. It'll kill this tree unless I cut through it. You two go along and 
I'll catch up."
"Want my knife?" Beezie offered.
"No. My arrowhead's sharp."
For a moment he stared after his sister and grand-
178 Swiftly Tilting Planet
mother as they wended their slow way. He sniffed the fragrance of the air. 
Although the apple trees were green, the pink and white blossoms were still on 
the ground. The scent of lilac mingled with the mock orange. He might be able to 
hear the trucks on the road and see the planes in the sky, but at least here he 
couldn't smell them.
Chuck liked neither the trucks nor the planes. They all left their fumes behind 
them, blunting the smell of sunlight, of rain, of green and growing things, and 
Chuck 'saw' with his nose almost more than with his eyes. Without looking he 
could easily tell his parents, his grandmother, his sister. And he judged people 
almost entirely by his reaction to their odor.
1 don't smell a thing,' his father had said after Chuck had wrinkled his nose at 
a departing customer.
Chuck had said calmly, 'He smells unreliable.'
His father gave a small, surprised laugh. 'He is unreliable. He owes me more 
than I can afford to be owed, for all his expensive clothes.'
When the strand of bittersweet was severed, Chuck stood leaning against the 
rough bark of the tree, breathing in its resiny smell. In the distance he could 
see his grandmother and Beezie. The old woman smelled to him of distance, of the 
sea, which was fifty or more miles away, but perhaps it was a farther sea which 
clung to her. 'And you smell green,' he had told her. 'Ah, and that's because I 
come from a far green country and the scent of it will be with me always.'
'What color do I smell?' Beezie had asked.
179 179
'Yellow, like buttercups and sunlight and butterfly wings.'
Green and gold. Good smells. Home smells. His mother was the blue of sky in 
early morning. His father was the rich mahogany of the highboy in the living 
room, with the firelight flickering over the polished wood. Comfortable, safe 
smells.
And suddenly the thought of the odor of cookies and freshly baked bread called 
to him, and he ran to catch up.
The family lived over the store in a long, rambling apartment. The front room, 
overlooking the street, was a storeroom, filled with cartons and barrels. Behind 
it were three bedrooms: his parents', his own little cubbyhole, and the bigger 
room Beezie shared with the grandmother. Beyond these were the kitchen and the 
large long room which served as living and dining room.
There was a fire crackling in the fireplace, for the spring evenings were apt to 
be chilly. The family was seated about a large round table set for tea, with 
cookies and bread still warm from the oven, a pitcher of milk, and a big pot of 
tea covered with the cozy the grandmother had brought with her from Ireland.
Chuck took his place, and his mother poured his tea. "Did you save another 
tree?"
"Yes. I really should take Pa's big clippers with me next time."
Beezie pushed the plate of bread and butter to him. "Take your share quickly or 
I'll eat it all up."
180 Swiftlij Tilting Planet
Chuck's sensitive nostrils twitched. There was a smell in the room which was 
completely unfamiliar to him, and of which he was afraid.
The father helped himself to a cookie. "This is one of the times I wish Sunday 
afternoons came more than once a week."
"You've been acting tired lately." His wife looked at him anxiously.
"Being tired is the natural state of a country storekeeper who doesn't have much 
business sense."
The grandmother moved creakily from her chair at the table to her rocker. "Hard 
work's not easy. You need more help."
"Can't afford it, Grandma. How about telling us a story?"
"You've heard them all as many times as there are stars in the sky."
"I never tire of them."
"I'm told out for today."
"Oh, come on, Grandma," Mr. Maddox cajoled. "You never tire of storytelling, and 
you know you make most of it up as you go along."
"Stories are like children. They grow in their own way." She closed her eyes. "I 
will just take a small snooze."
"You tell me about the Indian princess, then, Pa," Beezie ordered.
"I don't know much about her as far as provable facts are concerned. My 
illustrious forebear, Matthew Maddox, from whom I may have inherited an iota of 
talent, wrote
181 
about her in his second novel. It was a best-seller in its day. Sad he couldn't 
have known about its success, but it was published posthumously. It was a 
strange sort of fantasy, with qualities which make some critics call it the 
first American science-fiction novel, because it played with time, and he'd 
obviously heard of Mendel's theories of genetics. Anyhow, Beezie love, it's a 
fictional account of the two brothers from ancient Wales who came to this 
country after their father's death, the first Europeans to set foot on these 
uncharted shores. And, as the brothers had quarreled in Wales, so they quarreled 
in the New World, and the elder of the two made his way to South America. Madoc, 
the younger brother, stayed with the Indians in a place which is nameless but 
which Matthew Maddox implies is right around here, and he married the Indian 
princess Zyll, or Zillah, and in the novel it is his strain which is lost, and 
must be found again."
"Sounds interesting," Chuck said.
Beezie wrinkled her nose. "I don't much like science fiction. I like fairy tales 
better."
"The Horn of Joy has elements of both. The idea that the proud elder brother 
must be defeated by the inconsequential but honest younger brother is certainly 
a fairytale theme. There was also a unicorn in the story, who was a time 
traveler."
"Whyn't you tell us about it before?" Beezie asked.
"Thought you'd be too young to be interested. Anyhow, I sold my copy when I was 
offered an outrageously large sum for it when I ... it was too large an amount 
to turn down. Matthew Maddox, for a nineteenth-century
182 
writer, had an uncanny intuition about the theories of space, time, and 
relativity that Einstein was to postulate generations later."
"But that's not possible," Beezie protested.
"Precisely. But it's all in Matthew's book, nevertheless. It's an evocative, 
haunting novel, and since Matthew Maddox assumed that he was descended from the 
younger Welshman, the one who stayed here, and the Indian princess, I've 
followed his fancy that the name Maddox comes from Madoc." A shadow moved across 
his face. "When my father had a stroke and I had to leave my poet's garret in 
the city and come help out with the store, I had to give up my dream of 
following in Matthew's footsteps."
"Oh, Pa-" Chuck said.
"I'm mainly sorry for you children. I never had a chance to prove whether or not 
I could be a writer, but I'm a failure as a merchant." He rose. "I'd better go 
down to the store for an hour or so and work on accounts."
When he left, holding on to the banister as he went down the steep stairs, the 
smell that made Chuck afraid went with him.
Chuck told no one, not even Beezie, about the smell which was in his father but 
was not of his father.
Twice that week, Chuck had nightmares. When he cried out in terror his mother 
came hurrying, but he told her only that he had had a bad dream.
Beezie wasn't put off so easily. "You're worried about something, Chuck."
183 
"There's always something to worry about. Lots of people owe Pa money, and he's 
worried about bills. I heard a salesman say he couldn't give Pa any more 
credit."
Beezie said, "You're too young to worry about things like that. Anyhow, it isn't 
the kind of thing you worry about."
"I'm getting older."
"Not that old."
"Pa's giving me more to do. I know more about the business now."
"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.
184 
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 gorgeous-ness."
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
185 185
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.
186 186A Swiftly Tilting Planet
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.
187 
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?
188 Swiftly Tilting Planet
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."
"Ill 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.
189 The rocks with their steepnessi8g
"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 marvel-ous, 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 an-
190 Swiftly Tilting Planet
nounced 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?"
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
191 The rocks with their steepnesszgj
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 beauti-
192 
ful, 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'Keef e, 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"
193 The rocks with their steepness193
Mrs. Murry said, "The letter was mailed from Ves-pugia. 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?"
194 
"Were. Once."
"Where are they?"
"Gone. Went to look. Began thinking about this Bran-zillo 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
195 The rocks with their steepness195
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.
196 Swiftly Tilting Planet
-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 . . ."
197 The rocks with their steepness197
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.
198 Swiftly Tilting Planet
Chuck exclaimed in delight, "Oh, Beezie, oh, Grandma!" Reverently he turned the 
page. In beautiful script was written, Madrun, 1864, Zillah Llawcae,
The grandmother wiped her floury hands carefully and put on her spectacles, 
bending over the book. Together they read the first page.
Madrun.
Past ten o'clock. Through my bedroom window I can look down the hill to the 
Maddoxes' house. Mr. and Mrs. Maddox will be asleep. They get up at five in the 
morning. Gwen Maddox-who knows? Gwen has always considered herself a grownup and 
me a child, though we're separated by only two years.
The twins, my dear twins, Bran and Matthew. Are they awake? When Bran lied about 
his age, so afraid was he he'd miss the war, and went to join the cavalry, I 
feared he might be killed in battle. When I dreamed of his homecoming, as I did 
each night when I looked at his diamond on my finger and prayed for his safety, 
I never thought it could be like this, with Bran withdrawn and refusing to 
communicate with anyone, even his twin. If I try to speak to him about our 
marriage, he cuts me short, or turns away without a word. Matthew says there 
have been others who have suffered this sickness of spirit because of the 
horrors of war.
I am, and have been for nearly seventeen years, Zillah Llawcae. Will I ever be 
Zillah Maddox?
They continued to turn the pages, more quickly now, not pausing to read the 
journal entries, but looking at the delicate paintings of birds and butterflies, 
flowers and
199 The rocks with their steepness199
trees, squirrels and wood mice and tree toads, all meticulously observed and 
accurately reproduced.
A shiver ran up and down Chuck's spine. "Pa's mother was a Llawcae. This Zillah 
could be one of our ancestors . . . and she was alive when she painted all this, 
and it's just the way it is now, just exactly the same."
He turned another page; his eye was caught, and he read:
This is my seventeenth birthday, and a sorry one it has been, though Father and 
I were invited to the Maddoxes' for dinner. But Bran was there and yet he wasn't 
there. He sat at the table, but he hardly ate the delicious dishes which had 
been especially prepared, to tempt him as much as in honor of me, and if anyone 
asked him a question he answered in monosyllables.
He turned the page and paused again.
Matthew says Bran almost had a conversation with him last night, and he is 
hopeful that the ghastly war wounds of his mind and spirit are beginning to 
heal. I wear his ring with its circle of hope, and I will not give up hoping. 
What would I do without Matthew's friendship to comfort and sustain me? Had it 
not been for Matthew's accident, I wonder which twin would have asked for my 
hand? A question better not raised, since I love them both so tenderly.
The grandmother took the top letter from the packet. "It's from Bran Maddox, the 
one Zillah's talking about, but it's from some foreign place, Vespugia? Now 
where would that be?"
200 
"It's part of what used to be Patagonia."
"Fata-?"
"In South America."
"Oh, then." She drew the letter out of its envelope.
My beloved brother, Matthew, greetings, on this warm November day in Vespugia. 
It 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 . . .
When she finished reading the letter, she said, "Your poor pa would have been 
thrilled at all this."
Chuck, nodding, continued to turn the pages, reading a line here and there. As 
well as the nature pictures, the young Zillah Llawcae had many sketches of 
people, some in ink, some in watercolor. There was an ink drawing of a tall man 
in a stovepipe hat, carrying a black bag and looking not unlike Lincoln, 
standing by a horse and buggy. Underneath was written, "Father, about to drive 
off to deliver a baby."
There were many sketches of a young man, just beyond boyhood, with fair hair, a 
clear, beardless complexion, and wide-apart, far-seeing eyes. These were 
labeled, "My beloved Bran," "My dearest Bran," "My heart's love." And there were 
sketches of someone who looked like Bran and yet not like Bran, for the face was 
etched with lines of pain. "My dear Matthew," Zillah had written.
"It's so beautiful," Beezie said. "I wish I could paint like that."
But the old woman's thoughts had shifted to practical-
201 The rocks with their steepness201
ity. "I wonder, would this notebook bring a few dollars?"
"Grandma, you wouldn't sell it!" Chuck was horrified.
"We need money, lad, if we're to keep a roof over our heads. Your ma'll sell 
anything she can sell."
The antiques dealer who bought the pennies and the set of china for what seemed 
to Chuck and Beezie a staggering sum was not interested in Zillah's notebook.
Mrs. Maddox looked at it sadly. "I know it's worth something. Your father would 
know where I should take it. If only I could remember the name of the person who 
bought Matthew Maddox's book."
But Chuck could not feel it in his heart to wish the beautiful journal sold. His 
grandmother took an old linen pillowcase and made a cover to protect the 
crumbling leather binding, and on it Beezie embroidered two butterflies, in blue 
and gold. She was as entranced with the journal as was Chuck.
They shared the notebook and the letters with the grandmother, reading aloud to 
her while she did the ironing or mending, until they had her as involved as they 
were. The present was so bleak that all three found relief in living the long 
past.
Beezie and Chuck looked at the old foundation behind the store. "That's where 
the Maddoxes' house must have been. They didn't live above the store, the way we 
do."
"Our apartment was all part of the store."
"I wonder what happened to the house?"
"We'll never know," Beezie said drearily.
"I tried to check one of Matthew Maddox's books out
202 
of the library," Chuck said. "But the librarian said they haven't been around in 
a long time. She thinks somebody must have lifted them. But I did get some books 
on Ves-pugia. Let's go upstairs and look at them."
They compared the photographs in the books with the watercolors in the final 
pages of the journal, where Zillah had tried to reproduce in ink and paint what 
Bran had described in his letters. Zillah's painting of vast plains rising 
terrace-fashion up to the foot of the Andes gave them a feeling of a world so 
different it might have been another planet.
Beezie had turned back to Zillah's notebook, to a painting of a tall and 
handsome Indian, with strange blue eyes set rather too close to his aquiline 
nose. The caption read: "This is how I think Gedder must look, the Indian who 
Bran writes is descended from Madoc's brother."
Chuck reached for one of Bran's letters and read:
I wish I was more drawn to Gedder, who is so obviously drawn to Gwen. I feel an 
ingrate when I think of all he has done for us. Building is completely different 
in Vespugian weather than at home-or in Wales, and I shudder to think what kind 
of houses we might have built had Gedder not shown us how to construct dwellings 
to let the wind in, rather than to keep it out. And he showed us what crops to 
plant, hardy things like cabbage and carrots, and how to make windbreaks for 
them. All the Indians have helped us, but Gedder more than the others, and more 
visibly. But he never laughs.
"I don't trust people who don't laugh." He put the letter down.
203 The rocks with their steepness203
Beezie got a baby-sitting job that began right after school, so Chuck took her 
place at the cash register, pretending that he was Matthew Maddox and that the 
store was big and flourishing. The grandmother took in ironing and sewing, and 
her old hands were constantly busy. There was no time for leisurely cups of tea 
and the telling of tales. Chuck moved more and more deeply into his games of 
Let's Pretend. Matthew and Zillah, Bran and Gwen, Gedder and Zillie, all were 
more alive for him than anyone except Beezie and the grandmother.
One evening Mrs. Maddox stayed late downstairs in the store. When Chuck came 
home from chopping wood for one of their neighbors, he found Beezie and his 
grandmother drinking herb tea. "Grandma, I'm hungry." He could feel his belly 
growling. Supper had been soup and dry toast.
Seeming to ignore his words, the old woman looked at him. "Duthbert Mortmain's 
been calling on your ma. He's downstairs now."
"I don't like him," Beezie said.
"You may have to," the grandmother told her.
"Why?" Chuck asked. He remembered Duthbert Mortmain as a lumbering, scowling man 
who did small plumbing jobs. How did he smell? Not a pleasant smell. Hard, like 
a lump of coal.
"He's offered to marry your ma and take over the store."
"But Pa-"
"The funeral baked meats are long cold. Duthbert
204 
Mortmain's got a shrewd business head, and no one's bought the store, nor likely 
to. Your ma's not got much choice. And for all her hard work and heavy heart, 
she's still a pretty woman. Not surprising Duthbert Mortmain should fall for 
her."
"But she's our mother," Beezie protested.
"Not to Duthbert Mortmain. To him she's a desirable woman. And to your mother, 
he's a way out."
"Out of what?" Chuck asked.
"Your mother's about to lose the store and the roof over our heads. Another few 
weeks and we'll be out on the street."
Chuck's face lit up. "We could go to Vespugia!"
"Going anywhere takes money, Chuck, and money's what we don't have. You and 
Beezie'd be put in foster homes, and as to your ma and me . . ."
"Grandma!" Beezie clutched the old woman's sleeve. "You don't want Ma to marry 
him, do you?"
"I don't know what I want. I'd like to know that she was taken care of, and you 
and Chuck, before I die."
Beezie flung her arms about the old woman. "You're not going to die, Grandma, 
not ever!"
Chuck's nostrils twitched slightly. The scent of dandelion spore was strong.
The old woman untangled herself. "You've seen how death takes the ready and 
unready, my Beezie. Except for my concern about your future, and your mother's, 
I'm ready to go home. It's been a long time I've been separated from my Patrick. 
He's waiting for me. The last few
205 The rocks with their steepness205
days I've kept looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him."
"Grandma"-Beezie pushed her fingers through her curls-"Ma doesn't love Duthbert 
Mortmain. She can't! I hate him!"
"Hate hurts the hater more'n the hated."
"Didn't Branwen?"
"Branwen hated not. Branwen loved, and was betrayed, and cried the rune for 
help, and not for hate or revenge. And the sun melted the white snow so that she 
could sleep warm at night, and the fire in her little stove did not burn out but 
flickered merrily to keep her toasty, and the lightning carried her message to 
her brother, Bran, and her Irish king fled to his ship and the wind blew him 
across the sea and his ship sank in its depths and Bran came to his sister 
Branwen and blessed the stark earth so that it turned green and flowering once 
more."
Beezie asked, "Did she ever love anybody again, after the Irish king?"
"I've forgotten," the old woman said.
"Grandma! Why don't we use the rune? Then maybe Ma won't have to marry Duthbert 
Mortmain."
"The rune is not to be used lightly."
"This wouldn't be lightly."
"I don't know, my Beezie. Patterns have to be worked out, and only the very 
brash tamper with them. The rune is only for the most dire emergency."
"Isn't this an emergency?"
206 
"Perhaps not the right one." The old woman closed her eyes and rocked back and 
forth in silence, and when she spoke it was in a rhythmic singsong, much as when 
she intoned the words of the rune. "You will use the rune, my lamb, you will use 
the rune, but not before the time is ripe." She opened her eyes and fixed Beezie 
with a piercing gaze which seemed to go right through her.
"But how will I know when the time is ripe? Why isn't it ripe now?"
The old woman shook her head and closed her eyes and rocked again. "This moment 
is not the moment. The night is coming and the clouds are gathering. We can do 
nothing before they are all assembled. When the time is ripe, Chuck will let you 
know. From the other side of darkness, Chuck will let you know, will let you 
know, will let . . ." Her words trailed off, and she opened her eyes and spoke 
in her natural voice. "To bed with both of you. It's late."
"Horrid old Duthbert Mortmain," Beezie said to Chuck one fine summer's day. "I 
won't call him Pa."
"Nor I."
Duthbert Mortmain seemed quite content to have them call him Mr. Mortmain.
He ran the store with stern efficiency. With their mother he was gentle, 
occasionally caressing her soft hair. People remarked on how he doted on her.
A sign over the cash register read no credit. Beezie and Chuck helped out in the 
afternoons and on Saturdays as usual. And their mother still did not smile, not 
even
207 The rocks with their steepness207
when Duthbert Mortmain brought her a box of chocolates tied with a lavender 
ribbon.
She no longer smelled of fear, Chuck thought, but neither did she smell of the 
blue sky of early morning. Now it was the evening sky, with a thin covering of 
cloud dimming the blue.
Duthbert Mortmain saved his pleasantries for the customers. He laughed and made 
jokes and gave every appearance of being a hearty, kindly fellow. But upstairs 
in the evenings his face was sour.
"Don't be noisy, children," their mother warned. "Your -my husband is tired."
Beezie whispered to Chuck, "Pa was tired, too, but he liked to hear us laugh."
"We were his own children," Chuck replied. "We don't belong to Duthbert 
Mortmain, and he doesn't like what doesn't belong to him."
Duthbert Mortmain did not show his vicious temper until the following spring. 
There was never a sign of it in the store, even with the most difficult 
customers or salesmen, but upstairs he began to let it have its way. One morning 
his wife ("I hate it when people call her Mrs. Mortmain!" Beezie exploded) came 
to breakfast with a black eye, explaining that she had bumped into a door in the 
dark. The grandmother, Beezie, and Chuck looked at her, but said nothing.
And it became very clear that Duthbert Mortmain did not like children, even when 
they were quiet. Whenever Chuck did anything which displeased his stepfather,
208 
which was at least once a day, Mortmain boxed his ears, so that at last they 
rang constantly.
When Beezie sat at the cash register, her stepfather pinched her arm every time 
he passed, as though in affection. But her arms were so full of black and blue 
marks that she kept her sweater on all the time to hide the bruises.
One day at recess in the schoolyard, Chuck saw Paddy O'Keefe come up to Beezie, 
and hurried over to them to hear Paddy asking, "Old Mortmain after you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean."
"No. I don't." But she shivered.
Chuck intervened, "You leave my sister alone."
"Better tell old Mortmain to leave her alone, runt. You ever need any help, 
Beezie, you just let me know. Li'1 ole Paddy'11 take care of you."
That night Duthbert Mortmain's temper flared totally out of control.
They had finished the evening meal, and when Beezie was clearing the table, her 
stepfather reached out and pinched her bottom, and Chuck saw the look of cold 
hatred she turned on him.
"Duthbert-" their mother protested.
"Duthbert Mortmain, take care." The grandmother gave him a long, level gaze. She 
spoke not another word, but warning was clear in her eyes. She put cups and 
glasses on a tray, and started for the sink.
209 The rocks with their steepness209
Mortmain, too, left the table, and as the old woman neared the stairway he 
raised his arm to strike her.
"No!" Beezie screamed.
Chuck thrust himself between his grandmother and stepfather and took the full 
force of Mortmain's blow.
Again Beezie screamed, as Chuck fell, fell down the steep stairs in a shower of 
broken china and glass. Then she rushed after him.
Chuck lay in a distorted position at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her 
with eyes that did not see. "Gedder pushed me. He pushed me. Don't let him marry 
Gwen. Zillah, don't let Gedder, don't let . . ."
210 
A field of dandelions. Yellow. Yellow. Exploding into white, into a blizzard of 
white, a terror of white. Green stems, sickly trickling ooze.
Grandma.
Grandma.
Grandma, you're not going to die. Not ever.
Gedder.
Smell. Bad smell.
Gun. Gedder's gun. Stop him
terrible fall
Gwen Zillah
211 
head hurts hurts
crystal horn heals
Matthew's unicorn comes
tip touches head with light heals
Beezie! Grandma! Ma! Pa!
Two stones in the cemetery.
A fight at the edge of the cliff, like Gwydyr and Madoc at the edge of the lake. 
Bad. Bad. Beezie, never let him touch you.
From inside himself Charles Wallace watched as the unicorn lowered his head and 
the blazing tip of the horn touched Chuck's head, pouring light into it. He kept 
the horn there until the light had poured itself out, and the spasms of pain 
subsided and the boy stopped babbling and slept.
"Charles Wallace!"
He listened. The voice sounded like Gaudior, and yet it was not Gaudior, and he 
no longer saw the silver beauty of the unicorn nor the light of the horn. 
Nothing was visible, not even darkness. Something was happening, and he did not 
know what. He was still Within Chuck, and yet he was intensely conscious of 
himself as Charles Wallace, and something was pulling him.
Meg sat up, blinking and rubbing her hand against Ananda's fur. The kitten had 
returned and was sleeping
212 
on the pillow. At first Meg did not know why there were tears on her cheeks, or 
why she was frightened.
She closed her eyes in sadness and saw the unicorn standing motionless by the 
star-watching rock. A pear-shaped drop of crystal slid from Gaudior's eye and 
shattered into a thousand fragments on the stone. The unicorn looked up at the 
sky. The stars were sparkling brilliantly. Small wisps of starlit cloud moved in 
the rapid north wind. She thought she heard Gaudior saying, 'The Old Music was 
in them once. That was a victory for the Echthroi.'
Meg thought of Mrs. O'Keefe waiting downstairs. Yes. That was a victory for the 
enemy, indeed. That Beezie, the golden child, should have become the old hag 
with missing teeth and resentful eyes was unbearable.
There's more to her than meets the eye.
Infinitely more.
And what now? What's going to happen?
To Chuck?
To Charles Wallace?
"Charles Wallace!"
He listened. Was it Gaudior? He could hear, but he could not see, and the voice 
echoed as though coming from a great distance.
"Charles Wallace." The voice was compassionate. "You don't have to stay Within 
Chuck now that this has happened. We did not expect this."
Charles Wallace felt cold and confused and therefore cross. "But I am Within 
Chuck."
213 
"Yes. And Chuck is unconscious, and when he comes to, he will, not be the same. 
His skull has been fractured. Although the healing of the horn has taken away 
the worst of the pain it could not repair the brain damage. And so there have 
been instructions that you are to be released now if you so desire."
Charles Wallace felt weighed down by darkness and pain.
The almost-Gaudior voice continued. "Within Chuck as he is now, you will have no 
control over his actions. His brain is short-circuited. If there is a 
Might-Have-Been which you should alter in order to avert disaster, you will have 
no ability either to recognize it or to change it."
"If you release me from Within Chuck, then what?"
"You will be sent Within someone else, and then you will be better able to 
accomplish your mission. Time is of the essence, as you understand. And we do 
not know what may happen while you are trapped Within this injured child."
"Who are you?" Charles Wallace asked the invisible voice. "You sound like 
Gaudior, but you aren't Gaudior."
The voice laughed gently. "No, I am not Gaudior. All the healing light went from 
his horn, but he could not cure Chuck, though he kept him from dying-and that 
may not have been a kindness. He has gone home to dip his horn in the pools of 
healing to replenish it."
"Then who are you?"
Again the voice laughed. "You saw me when Gaudior took you home after you nearly 
drowned in the Ice Age
214 
sea. I am the unicorn you saw come forth from the shell."
"Why can't I see you? Why can't I see anything?" The words of the voice had 
reassured him, and yet he still felt foreboding.
"While you are in Chuck, you see only what Chuck sees, and he is unconscious, 
and will be for several days. Come, Charles Wallace, there's no time to be lost. 
Let us help you out of Chuck. If Mad Dog Branzillo is to be prevented from 
starting a holocaust you must not dally."
"I have to think-" Something was wrong, and he did not know what.
"Charles Wallace. Gaudior will corroborate what I have told you. Chuck's brain 
has been damaged. He's little better than an idiot. Come out."
"If I come out, will I see you?" There was something about the voice which was 
inconsistent with the visual image of the baby unicorn; but of course it would 
no longer be a baby.
"Of course you'll see me. Hurry. There's a terrible urgency about what you are 
to accomplish."
"I?"
"Of course, you. You were selected, weren't you?"
"No. Beezie-Mrs. O'Keefe-laid a charge on me."
"Because you're the only one who can prevent Branzillo."
"But I can't-"
"Of course you can." The voice was tenderly patient. "Why do you think you were 
chosen?"
"Well-Gaudior seemed to think it was that I might
215 215
be able to go Within people, because of the way Meg and I kythe."
"Exactly. You were chosen because of your special gifts, and your unusual 
intelligence. You know that yourself, don't you?"
"Well-I can kythe. And I know my I.Q.'s high, as far as that goes. But that's 
not enough-"
"Of course it is. And you have the ability to see the difference between right 
and wrong, and to make the correct decisions. You were selected because you are 
an extraordinary young man and your gifts and your brains qualify you. You are 
the only one who can control the Might-Have-Been."
Charles Wallace's stomach was churning.
"Come, Charles Wallace. You have been chosen. You are in control of what is 
going to happen. You are needed. We must go."
Charles Wallace began to throw up. Was it in reaction to the tempting words, or 
because Chuck, with his bashed-in skull, was vomiting? But he knew that whatever 
the voice looked like, it was not a unicorn. When he had stopped retching he 
said, "I don't know who you are, but you're not like Gaudier. Gaudior would 
never say what you've just said. It was trying to use my high I.Q. and trying to 
control things that got us into trouble in the first place. I don't know what 
I'm supposed to use, but it's not my intellect or strength. For better or worse, 
I'm Within Chuck. And I've never come out of Within on my own. It's always 
happened to me. I'm staying Within."
216 
Meg let out a long sigh. "He made the right choice, didn't he?"
Ananda's warm tongue gently touched Meg's hand.
Meg closed her eyes, listening. She thought she heard a howl of defeat, and she 
whiffed the ugly stench of Echthroi.
So they had been trying to get at Charles Wallace in a much more subtle way than 
by trying to snatch him from Gaudior's back or throw him into Projections.
Duthbert Mortmain had nearly killed Chuck. Nothing went in straight lines for 
him any more, not time, not distance. His mind was like the unstable earth, full 
of faults, so that layers shifted and slid. It was like being in a nightmare 
from which there was no possibility of waking. She ached for him, and for 
Charles Wallace Within him.
Pain and panic
the world tilting
twirling on its axis, out of control
spinning off away from the sun into the dark
light bursting against his eyes, an explosion of light
a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors assailing his nostrils
"Chuck!" The voice came echoing from a vast distance,
echoing along the unseen walls of a dark tunnel.
"Chuck! It's Beezie, your sister. Chuck, can you hear
me?"
He was weighted down by the vast heaviness of the
atmosphere, but he managed to lift one finger in re-
217 217
sponse to Bcezie's calling, afraid, as he did so, that if the weight lifted he 
would fall oft the wildly tilting earth . . .
"He hears me! Ma, Chuck moved his finger!"
Slowly the rampant, out-of-control speed lessened, and the planet resumed its 
normal pace. Colors stopped their kaleidoscopic dance and stayed in place. 
Smells became identifiable once more: coffee; bread; apples. Beezie: the gold 
was not as brilliant as it had been, but it was still Beezie. And their mother: 
the blue was cloudy now, hardly blue at all, closer to the grey of rain clouds. 
Grandma: where is Grandma's smell? Why is there emptiness? Where is the green?
"Grandma!"
"She's dead, Chuck. Her heart gave out."
"Gedder pushed her. He killed her."
"No, Chuck." Beezie's voice was bitter, and the bitterness further muted the 
gold. "Duthbert Mortmain. He was furious with her, and he was going to strike 
her, but you saved her, and he hit you instead, and you fell all the way down 
the stairs and fractured your skull. And Grandma-she just . . ."
"What? Did Gedder-"
"No, no, not Gedder, Chuck, Duthbert Mortmain. He felt as awful as he's capable 
of feeling. He and Ma drove you to the hospital, and I stayed home with Grandma, 
and she looked at me and said, I'm sorry, Beezie, I can't wait any longer. My 
Patrick's come for me.' And she gave a little gasp, and that was all."
218 
He heard her, but between the stark words came other sounds and the smell of a 
hot and alien wind. Time's layers slipped and slid under him. "But Gwen 
shouldn't marry Gedder. Gwydyr's children shouldn't marry Madoc's."
There was panic in Beezie's voice. "What are you talking about? Chuck, please 
don't. You scare me. I want you to get all the way well."
"Not Let's Pretend. Real. Gwen and Gedder-it would be bad, bad . . ."
The cliff loomed high over him, dark, shadowing. Gedder was at the top of the 
cliff, waiting, waiting . . . who was he waiting for?
Chuck slowly improved, until he could put cans and boxes on the store shelves. 
Even though he could not manage school, he recovered enough to mark the prices 
on the store's stock. He seldom made a mistake, and when he did, Duthbert 
Mortmain did not box his ears.
Sometimes Chuck saw him as Mortmain, sometimes as Gedder, when his worlds 
warped. "Gedder is nicer than he used to be," he reported to Beezie. "He's nicer 
to Ma. And to Grandma and me."
"Grandma-" A sob choked Beezie's voice. "Chuck, how can you! How can you play 
Let's Pretend about that?" Her voice rose with outrage. "How can you go away 
from me like this when I need you? Don't leave me!"
He heard and he did not hear. He was caught between
219 
the layers and he could not get into the right layer so that he could be with 
Beezie. "Grandma says I'm not to let him hear me call him Gedder, because that's 
not his real name, so I won't." He had intended to say, he thought he was 
saying, 'I'll never leave you, Beezie,' but the words of the other layer came 
out of his mouth. "Where's Matthew? I want to talk to him. He has to get Zillah 
to Vespugia."
Sometimes the earth started to tilt again and he could not stand upright against 
the velocity. Then he had to stay in bed until the tilting steadied.
He climbed the attic stairs one day when the earth was firm under his feet, and 
crawled into all the dimmest and most cobwebby corners, until his hands felt a 
packet. At first he thought it was an old tobacco pouch, but then he saw that it 
was oilskin wrapped about some papers. Letters. And newspaper clippings.
Letters from Bran to Zillah, to Matthew. Urgent letters.
He looked at them and the words danced and flickered. Sometimes they seemed to 
say one thing, sometimes another. He could not read the small print. He pushed 
the heels of his hands against his eyeballs and everything sparkled like 
fireworks. He sobbed with frustration, and took the letters and clippings 
downstairs and put them under his pillow.
-I'll tell Grandma. She'll help me read them.
The kythe came to Meg in distorting waves.
One minute she understood, and the next she was
220 
caught up in Chuck's shifting universe. She pulled herself away from the kythe 
to try to think.
-What's coming clear, she thought, -is that it's important to know whether Mad 
Dog Branzillo is from Madoc's or Gwydyr's line. Somehow or other, it's between 
the two babies in the scry, the scry which both Madoc and Brandon Llawcae saw.
We don't know much about Gwydyr's line. He was disgraced, and he went to 
Vespugia eventually, and we think Gedder is his descendant.
We know a little more about Madoc's line. From each time Charles Wallace has 
gone Within, we know that most of Madoc's ancestors stayed around here.
So Branzillo's ancestors matter. And it's all in Matthew Maddox's book that 
Charles Wallace can't get at because the Echthroi are blocking him. But what can 
Charles Wallace do about it, even if he and Gaudior ever do get to Patagonia?
Slowly, she moved back into the kythe.
"Chuck." It was Beezie's voice. "Here I am." "How do you feel?"
"Dizzy. The earth's spinning, like the night we saw the fireflies."
"The night Pa died."
"Yes. Like then."
"You remember?" she asked in surprise.
"Of course."
221 
"Lots of things you don't remember. That's why you can't go to school any more. 
Chuck-"
"What?"
"Ma's going to have a baby."
"She can't. Pa's dead."
"She's married again."
"She and Gedder can't have a baby. It would be bad."
"I thought you were talking the way you used to. I thought you were all right!" 
Her voice rose in frustration and outrage. "Not Gedder! Mortmain!"
He tried to come back to her, but he could not. "Same difference. Same smell. 
The baby has to come from Madoc. Bran and Zillah have to have the baby because 
of the prayer."
"What prayer?" she shouted.
"Lords of blue and Lords of gold, Lords of winds and waters wild, Lords of time 
that's growing old, When will come the season mild? When will come blue Madoc s 
child?"
"Where'd you learn that?" "The letters." "What letters?"
He became impatient. "Bran's letters, of course." "But we've read them all. 
There wasn't anything like that in them."
"Found some more." "When? Where?"
222 
"In the attic. Grandma helps me read them." "Where are they?" she demanded. He 
fumbled under his pillow. "Here."
Chuck walked through a spring evening, smelling of growing grass, and blossoms 
drifting from the trees. He walked over the fields, over the brook, drinking the 
water rushing with melting snow, lifting his head, clambering to his feet, going 
on to the flat rock. Pain walked with him, and there was a dark veil of cloud 
between his eyes and the world. If a chair was pulled out of place he walked 
into it. Trees and rocks did not move; he felt safer at the rock than anywhere 
else.
He did not tell anybody about the veil.
He began to make mistakes in stamping the prices on the stock, but Duthbert 
Mortmain assumed it was because the fall had made him half-witted.
The baby came, a boy, and the mother no longer worked in the store. Paddy 
O'Keefe had dropped out of school and came in to help. Chuck followed Paddy's 
instructions, marking the cans with the stamp which Paddy set for him. He heard 
Paddy say, "He's more trouble than he's worth. Whyn't you send him to the 
nuthouse?"
Mortmain muttered something about his wife.
"Aren't you afraid he'll hurt the baby?" Paddy asked.
After that, Chuck stayed out of the way as much as possible, spending the warm 
days at the flat rock, the cold ones curled up in the attic. He saw Beezie to 
talk to only in the evenings, and Sunday afternoons.
"Chuck, what's wrong with your eyes?"
223 223
"Nothing."
"You're not seeing properly."
"It's all right."
"Ma-"
"Don't tell Ma!"
"But you ought to see a doctor."
"No! All they want is any excuse to put me away. You must have heard them, Paddy 
and Duthbert. They want to put me in an institution. For my own good, Mortmain 
said to Ma. He said I'm an idiot and I might hurt the baby."
Beezie burst into tears and flung her arms around her brother. "You wouldn't!"
"I know I wouldn't. But it's the one thing Ma might listen to."
"And you're not an idiot!"
His cheeks were wet with Beezie's tears. "If you tell them about my eyes they'll 
put me in an insane asylum for my own good and the baby's. I'm trying to keep 
out of the way."
"I'll help you, oh, Chuck, I'll help you," Beezie promised.
"I have to stay long enough to make sure Matthew sends Zillah to Vespugia. He's 
saving the money."
"Oh, Chuck," Beezie groaned. "Don't let them hear you talk like this."
As the veil deepened and darkened, his inner vision lightened. When the weather 
was fine he lay out on the flat rock all day, looking up toward the sky and 
seeing
224 
pictures, pictures more vivid than anything he had seen with unveiled eyes. His 
concentration was so intense that he became part of all that was happening in 
the pictures. Sometimes in the evenings he told Beezie about them, pretending 
they were dreams, in order not to upset her.
"I dreamed about riding a unicorn. He was like moonlight, and so tall I had to 
climb a tree to get on his back, and we flew among the fireflies, and the 
unicorn and I sang together."
"That's a lovely dream. Tell me more."
"I dreamed that the valley was a lake, and I rode a beautiful fish sort of like 
a porpoise."
"Pa said the valley was a lake, way back in prehistory. Archaeologists have 
found fish fossils in the glacial rocks. Maybe that's why you dreamed it."
"Grandma told us about the lake, the day we blew dandelion clocks."
"Oh, Chuck, you're so strange, the way you remember some things . . ."
"And I dreamed about a fire of roses, and-" He reached gropingly for her hand. 
"I can move in and out of time."
"Oh, Chuck!"
"I can, Beezie."
"Please-please stop."
"It's only dreams," he comforted.
"Well, then. But don't tell Ma."
"Only you and Grandma."
"Oh, Chuck."
225 225
He knew the route to the rock so well that it was easier for him to go in the 
dark, when he could see nothing, than in sunlight when shafts of brilliance 
penetrated the veil like spears and hurt his eyes and confused his sense of 
direction.
Time. Time. There wasn't much time.
Time. Time was as fluid as water.
He stood by Matthew's couch. "You can't wait any longer. You have to get Zillah 
to Vespugia now, or it will be too late."
Matthew is writing, writing against time. It's all in the book Pa talked about. 
They don't want me to see the book.
Ritchie is cutting a window in Brandon's room, before leaving for Wales . . .
But Zillah isn't there . . . Why is there an Indian girl instead?
Because it isn't Zillah's time. She comes later, in Matthew's time
Unicorns can move in time
and idiots
space is more difficult
Paddy wants me out of the way. Paddy and Mortmain. Not much time
Lords of space and Lords of time, Lords of blessing, Lords of grace, Who is in 
the warmer clime? Who will follow Madoc's rhyme? Blue will alter time and space.
226 
Did you not learn in Gwynedd that there is room for one king only?
You will be great, little Madog, and call the world your own, to keep or destroy 
as you will. It is an evil world, little Madog.
You will do good for your people, El Zarco, little Blue Eyes. The prayer has 
been answered in you, blue for birth, blue for mirth
Which blue will it be
They are fighting up on the cliff on the steep rock
the world
it's tilting
it's going too fast
I'm going to fall
227 
The light came back slowly. There had been shadows, nothing but deepening 
shadows, and pain, and slowly the pain began to leave and healing light touched 
his closed lids. He opened them. He was on the star-watching rock with Gaudior.
"The wind brought you out of Chuck."
"What happened to him?"
"Mortmain had him institutionalized. Are you ready? It's time-" A ripple of 
tension moved along the unicorn's flanks.
Charles Wallace felt the wind all about them, cold,
228 
and yet strengthening. "What Chuck saw-two men fighting-was it real?"
"What is real?" Gaudior replied infuriatingly.
"It's important!"
"We do not always know what is important and what is not. The wind sends a 
warning to hurry, hurry. Climb up, and hold very tight."
"Should I bind myself to you again?"
"The wind says there's no time. We'll fly out of time and through galaxies the 
Echthroi do not know. But the wind says it may be difficult to send you Within, 
even so. Hold on, and try not to be afraid."
Charles Wallace felt the wind beneath them as Gaudior spread his wings. The 
flight at first was serene. Then he began to feel cold, a deep, penetrating cold 
far worse than the cold of the Ice Age sea. This was a cold of the spirit as 
well as the body. He did not fall off the unicorn because he was frozen to him; 
his hands were congealed in their clenched grasp on the frozen mane.
Gaudior's hoofs touched something solid, and the cold lifted just enough so that 
the boy was able to unclench his hands and open his frozen lids. They were in an 
open square in a frozen city of tall, windowless buildings. There was no sign of 
tree, of grass. The blind cement was cracked, and there were great chunks of 
fallen masonry on the street.
"Where-" Charles Wallace started, and stopped.
The unicorn turned his head slowly. "A Projection-"
Charles Wallace followed his gaze and saw two men
229 229
in gas masks patrolling the square with machine guns. "Do they see us?"
The question was answered by the two men pausing, turning, looking through the 
round black eyes of their gas masks directly at unicorn and boy, and raising 
their guns.
With a tremendous leap Gaudior launched upward, wings straining. Charles Wallace 
pressed close to the neck, hands twined in the mane. But for the moment they had 
escaped the Echthroi, and when Gaudior's hoofs touched the ground, the 
Projection was gone.
"Those men with guns-" Charles Wallace started. "In a Projection, could they 
have killed us?"
"I don't know," Gaudior said, "and I didn't want to wait to find out."
Charles Wallace looked around in relief. When he had left Chuck, it was autumn, 
the cold wind stripping the trees. Now it was high spring, the old apple and 
pear trees in full blossom, and the smell of lilac on the breeze. AH about them, 
the birds were in full song.
"What should we do now?" Charles Wallace asked.
"At least you're asking, not telling." Gaudior sounded unusually cross, so the 
boy knew he was unusually anxious.
Meg shivered. Within the kythe she saw the star-watching rock and a golden 
summer's day. There were two people on the rock, a young woman, and a young 
man-or a boy? She was not sure, because there was
230 
something wrong with the boy. But from their dress she was positive that it was 
the time of the Civil War- around 1865.
The Within-ing was long and agonizing, instead of immediate, as it had always 
been before. Charles Wallace felt intolerable pain in his back, and a crushing 
of his legs. He could hear himself screaming. His body was being forced into 
another body, and at the same time something was struggling to pull him out. He 
was being torn apart in a battle between two opposing forces. Sun blazed, 
followed by a blizzard of snow, snow melted by raging fire, and violent 
flashings of lightning, driven by a mighty wind, which whipped across sea and 
land . . .
His body was gone and he was Within, Within a crippled body, the body of a young 
man with useless legs like a shriveled child's . . . Matthew Maddox.
From the waist up he looked not unlike Madoc, and about the same age, with a 
proud head and a lion's mane of fair hair. But the body was nothing like Madoc's 
strong and virile one. And the eyes were grey, grey as the ocean before rain.
Matthew was looking somberly at the girl, who appeared to be about his age, 
though her eyes were far younger than his. "Croeso f'annwyl, Zillah." He spoke 
the Welsh words of endearment lovingly. "Thank you for coming."
"You knew I would. As soon as Jack O'Keefe brought your note, I set off. How did 
you get here?"
231 231
He indicated a low wagon which stood a little way from the rock.
She looked at the powerful torso, and deeply muscled shoulders and arms. "By 
yourself, all the way?"
"No. I can do it, but it takes me a long time, and I had to go over the store 
ledgers this morning. When I went to the stables to find Jack to deliver the 
note, I swallowed my pride and asked him to bring me."
Zillah spread her billowing white skirts about her on the rock. She wore a 
wide-brimmed leghorn hat with blue ribbons, which brought out the highlights in 
her straight, shining black hair, and a locket on a blue ribbon at her throat. 
To Matthew Maddox she was the most beautiful, and desirable, and-to him-the most 
unattainable woman in the world. "Matt, what's wrong?" she asked. "Something's 
happened to Bran." She paled. "How do you know? Are you sure?" "Last night I 
woke out of a sound sleep with an incredibly sharp pain in my leg. Not my own 
familiar pain, Bran's pain. And he was calling out to me to help him." "O dear 
Lord. Is he going to be all right?" "He's alive. He's been reaching out to me 
all day." She buried her face in her hands, so that her words were muffled. 
"Thank you for telling me. You and Bran- you've always been so close, even 
closer than most twins."
He acknowledged this with a nod. "We were always close, but it was after my 
accident that-it was Bran who brought me back into life, Zillah, you know that."
232 
She dropped her hand lightly on his shoulder. "If Bran is badly wounded, we're 
going to need you. As once you needed Bran."
After the accident, five years earlier, when his horse had crashed into a fence 
and rolled over on him, crushing his pelvis and legs and fracturing his spine, 
Bran had shown him no pity; instead, had fiercely tried to push his twin brother 
into as much independence as possible, and refused to allow him to feel sorry 
for himself.
'But Rollo jumps fences twice as high with ease.'
'He didn't jump that one.'
'Bran, just before he crashed, there was a horrible, putrid stink-'
'Stop going back over things. Get on with it.'
They continued to go everywhere together-until the war. Unlike Bran, Matthew 
could not lie about his age and join the cavalry.
"I lived my life through Bran, vicariously," Matthew told Zillah. "When he went 
to war, it was the first time he ever left me out." Then: "When you and Bran 
fell in love, I knew that I had to start letting him go, to try to find some 
kind of life of my own, so that he'd be free. And it was easier to let go with 
you than with anyone else in the world, because you've always treated me like a 
complete human being, and I knew that the two of you would not exclude me from 
your lives."
"Dear Matt. Never. And you are making your own life. You're selling your stories 
and poems, and I think they're as good as anything by Mark Twain."
Matthew laughed, a warm laugh that lightened the
233 
pain lines in his face. "They're only a beginner's work."
"But editors think they're good, too, and so does my father."
"I'm glad. I value Dr. Llawcae's opinion as much as anybody's in the world."
"And he loves you and Bran and Gwen as though you were my brothers and sister. 
And your mother has been a second mother to me since my own dear mama died. As 
for our fathers-they may be only distant kin, but they're like as two peas in a 
pod with their passion for Wales. Matt-have you said anything about Bran to Gwen 
or your parents?"
"No. They don't like the idea that Bran and I can cornmunicate without speech or 
letters the way we do. They pretend it's some kind of trick we've worked out, 
the way we used to change places with each other when we were little, to fool 
people. They think what we do isn't real."
"It's real, I don't doubt that." Zillah smiled. "Dear Matt, I think I love you 
nearly as much as Bran does."
A week later, Mr. Maddox received official news that his son had been wounded in 
battle and would be invalided home. He called the family into the dark, 
book-lined library to inform them.
Mrs. Maddox fanned herself with her black lace fan. "Thank God."
"You're glad Bran's been wounded!" Gwen cried indignantly.
Mrs. Maddox continued to fan herself. "Of course not, child. But I'm grateful to 
God that he's alive, and that
234 
he's coming home before something worse than a bullet in the leg happens to 
him."
-It is worse, Mama, Matthew thought silently. -Bran has been shutting me out of 
his thoughts and he's never done that before. All I get from him is a dull, 
deadening pain. Gwen is more right than she knows, not to be glad.
He looked thoughtfully at his sister. She was dark of hair and blue of eye like 
Zillah, making them appear more like sisters than distant cousins. But her face 
did not have Zillah's openness, and her eyes were a colder blue and glittered 
when she was angry. After Matthew's accident she had pitied him, but had not 
translated her pity into compassion. Matthew did not want pity.
Gwen returned his gaze. "And how do you feel about your twin's coming home, 
Matthew?"
"He's been badly hurt, Gwen," he said. "He's not going to be the same debonair 
Bran who left us."
"He's still only a child." Mrs. Maddox turned toward her husband, who was 
sitting behind the long oak library table.
"He's a man, and when he comes home the store will become Maddox and Son," her 
husband said.
-Maddox and Son, Matthew thought without bitterness -not Maddox and Sons.
He turned his wheelchair slightly away. He was totally committed to his writing; 
he had no wish to be a partner in Maddox's General Store, which was a large and 
prosperous establishment in the center of the village, and had the trade of the 
surrounding countryside for many miles.
235 
The first story of the rambling frame building was filled with all the 
foodstuffs needed for the village. Upstairs were saddles and harnesses, guns, 
plows, and even a large quantity of oars, as though Mr. Maddox remembered a time 
when nearly all of the valley had been a great lake. A few ponds were all that 
remained of the original body of water. Matthew spent most mornings in the 
store, taking care of the ledgers and all the accounts.
Behind the store was the house, named Merioneth. The Llawcae home, Madrun, stood 
beyond Merioneth, slightly more ostentatious, with white pillars and pink-brick 
faŁade. Merioneth was the typical three-storied white frame farmhouse with dark 
shutters which had replaced the original log cabins.
'People think we're putting on airs, giving our houses names,' Bran had 
complained one day, before the accident, as he and Matthew were walking home 
from school.
Matthew did a cartwheel. 'I like it,' he said as he came right side up. 
'Merioneth is named in honor of a distant cousin of ours in Wales.'
'Yah, I know, Michael Jones, a congregational minister of Bala in Merioneth.'
'Cousin Michael's pleased that we've given the house that name. He mentions it 
almost every time he writes to Papa. Weren't you listening yesterday when he was 
telling us about Love Jones Parry, the squire of Madrun, and his plan to take a 
trip to Patagonia to inspect the land and see if it might be suitable for a 
colony from Wales?'
236 
'That's the only interesting bit,' Bran had said. 1 love to travel, even just to 
go with Papa to get supplies. Maybe if the squire of Madrun really does take 
that trip, we could go with him.'
It was not long after this that the accident happened, and Matthew remembered 
how Bran had tried to rouse him from despair by telling him that Love Jones 
Parry had actually gone to Patagonia, and reported that although the land was 
wild and desolate, he thought that the formation of a Welsh colony where the 
colonists would be allowed to teach their native tongue in school might be 
possible. The Spanish government paid scant attention to that section of 
Patagonia, where there were only a few Indians and a handful of Spaniards.
But Matthew refused to be roused. 'Exciting for you. I'm not going to get very 
far from Merioneth ever again.'
Bran had scowled at him ferociously. 'You cannot afford the luxury of 
self-pity.'
-It is still an expensive luxury, Matthew thought, -and one I can ill afford.
"Matt!" It was Gwen. "A penny for your thoughts."
He had been writing when his father had summoned them, and still had his note 
pad on his lap. "Just thinking out the plot for another story."
She smiled at him brightly. "You're going to make the name of Maddox famous!"
"My brave baby," Mrs. Maddox said. "How proud I am of you! That was the third 
story you've sold to Harper's Monthly, wasn't it?"
"The fourth-Mama, Papa, Gwen: I think I must warn
237 237
you that Bran is going to need all our love and help when he comes home."
"Well, of course-" Gwen started indignantly.
"No, Gwen," he said quietly. "Bran is hurt much more than just the leg wound."
"What are you talking about?" his father demanded.
"You might call it Bran's soul. It's sick."
Bran returned, limping and withdrawn. He shut Matthew out as effectively as 
though he had slammed a door in his twin's face.
Once again Matthew sent a note to Zillah to meet him at the flat rock. This time 
he did not ask Jack O'Keefe for help, but lying on the wagon, he pulled himself 
over the rough ground. It was arduous work, even with his powerful arms, and he 
was exhausted when he arrived. But he had allowed more than enough time. He 
heaved himself off the wagon and dragged over to the rock, stretched out, and 
slept under the warm autumn sun.
"Matt-"
He woke up. Zillah was smiling down at him. "F'annwyl." He pushed the fair hair 
back from his eyes and sat up. "Thanks for coming."
"How is he today?"
Matthew shook his head. "No change. It's hard on Papa to have another crippled 
son."
"Hush. Bran's not a cripple!"
"He'll limp from that leg wound for the rest of his life. And whether or not his 
spirit will heal is anybody's guess."
238 
"Give him time, Matt . . ."
"Time!" Matthew pushed the word away impatiently. "That's what Mama keeps 
saying. But we've given him time. It's three months since he came home. He 
sleeps half the day and reads half the night. And he's still keeping himself 
closed to me. If he'd talk about his experiences it might help him, but he 
won't."
"Not even to you?"
"He seems to feel he has to protect me," Matthew said bitterly, "and one of the 
things I've always loved most in Bran was his refusal to protect or mollycoddle 
me in any way."
"Bran, Bran," Zillah murmured, "the knight in shining armor who went so bravely 
to join the cavalry and save the country and free the slaves . . ." She glanced 
at the ring on her finger. "He asked me to return his ring. To set me free, he 
said."
Matthew stretched out his hand to her, then drew it back.
"There has to be time for me as well as for Bran. When he gave me this ring I 
promised I'd be here for him when he returned, no matter what, and I intend to 
keep that promise. What can we do to bring him out of the slough of despond?"
Matthew ached to reach out to touch her fair skin, to stroke her hair as black 
as the night and as beautiful. He spread his hand on the warm rock. "I tried to 
get him to take me riding. I haven't ridden since he went away."
"And?"
"He said it was too dangerous."
239 
"For you? Or for him?"
"That's what I asked him. And he just said, 'Leave me alone. My leg pains me.' 
And I said, 'You never used to let me talk about it when my legs and back hurt.' 
And he just looked at me and said, 'I didn't understand pain then.' And I said, 
1 think you understood it better then than you do now.' And we stopped talking 
because we weren't getting anywhere, and he wouldn't open an inch to let me near 
him."
"Father says his pain should be tolerable by now, and the physical wound is not 
the problem."
"That's right. We've got to get him out of himself somehow. And Zillah, 
something else happened that I need to talk to you about. Yesterday when I hoped 
I could get Bran to take me riding I wheeled out to the stable to check on my 
saddle, and when I pushed open the stable door there were Jack and-and-"
"Gwen?"
"How did you guess?"
"I've noticed him looking at her. And she's looked right back."
"They were doing more than looking. They were kissing."
"Merchant's daughter and hired hand. Your parents would not approve. How about 
you?"
"Zillah, that's not what I mind about Jack O'Keefe. He's a big and powerful man 
and he has nothing but scorn for me-or anything with a physical imperfection. I 
saw him take a homeless puppy and kill it by flinging it against the wall of the 
barn."
240 
She put her hands over her eyes. "Matt! Stop!"
"I think it's his enormous physical healthiness that attracts Gwen. I'm a total 
cripple, and Bran's half a one, at least for now. And Jack is life. She doesn't 
see the cruelty behind the wide smile and loud laugh."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"Nothing. For now. Mama and Papa have enough on their minds, worrying their 
hearts out over Bran. And if I warn Gwen, she'll just think I'm jealous of all 
that Jack can do and all that I cannot. I'll try to talk to Bran, but I doubt 
he'll hear."
"Dear Matt. It comforts me that you and I can talk like this." Her voice was 
compassionate, but it held none of the pity he loathed. "My true and good 
friend."
One night after dinner, while the men lingered over the port, Mr. Maddox looked 
at Bran over the ruby liquid in his glass. "Matthew and Zillah would like you to 
join them in their Welsh lesson this week."
"Not yet, Papa."
"Not yet, not yet, that's all you've been saying for the past three months. Will 
Llawcae says your wound is healed now, and there's no reason for your 
malingering."
To try to stop his father, Matthew said, "I was remarking today that Gwen looks 
more Indian than Welsh, with her high cheekbones."
Mr. Maddox poured himself a second glass of port, then stoppered the cut-glass 
decanter. "Your mother does not like to be reminded that I have Indian blood, 
though
241 
it's generations back. The Llawcaes have it, too, through our common forebears, 
Brandon Llawcae and Maddok of the People of the Wind, whose children 
intermarried. Maddok was so named because he had the blue eyes of Welsh 
Madoc-but then, I don't need to repeat the story."
"True," Bran agreed.
"I like it." Matthew sipped his wine.
"You're a romanticizer," Bran said. "Keep it for your writing."
Mr. Maddox said stiffly, "As your mother has frequently pointed out, black hair 
and blue eyes are far more common in people of Welsh descent than Indian, and 
Welsh we indubitably are. And hard-working." He looked pointedly at Bran.
Later in the evening Matthew wheeled himself into Bran's room. His twin was 
standing by the window, holding the velveteen curtains aside to look across the 
lawn to the woods. He turned on Matthew with a growl. "Go away."
"No, Bran. When I was hurt I told you to go away, and you wouldn't. Nor will I." 
Matthew wheeled closer to his brother. "Gwen's in love with Jack O'Keefe."
"Not surprised. Jack's a handsome brute."
"He's not the right man for Gwen."
"Because he's our hired hand? Don't be such a snob."
"No. Because he is, as you said, a brute."
"Gwen can take care of herself. She always has. Anyhow, Papa would put his foot 
down."
242 
There was an empty silence which Matthew broke. "Don't cut Zillah out of your 
life."
"If I love Zillah, that's the only thing to do. Free her." "She doesn't want to 
be free. She loves you." Bran walked over to his bed with the high oak bedstead 
and flung himself down. "I'm out of love with everything and everybody. Out of 
love with life." "Why?"
"Do you have to ask me?" "Yes, I do. Because you aren't telling me." "You used 
to know without my having to tell you." "I still would, if you weren't shutting 
me out." Bran moved his head restlessly back and forth on the pillow. "Don't you 
be impatient with me, twin. Papa's bad enough."
Matthew wheeled over to the bed. "You know Papa." "I'm no more cut out to be a 
storekeeper than you are. Gwen's the one who has Papa's hard business sense. But 
I don't have a talent like yours to offer Papa as an alternative. And he's 
always counted on me to take over the business. And I don't want to. I never 
did." "What, then?" Matthew asked.
"I'm not sure. The only positive thing the war did for me was confirm my 
enjoyment of travel. I like adventure-but not killing. And it seems the two are 
seldom separated."
It was the nearest they had come to a conversation since Bran's return, and 
Matthew felt hopeful.
243 
Matthew was writing on his lap desk in a sunny corner of the seldom-used parlor.
There Bran found him. "Twin, I need you."
"I'm here," Matthew said.
Bran straddled a small gilt chair and leaned his arms on the back. "Matt, 
nothing is the way I thought it was. I went to war thinking of myself as 
Galahad, out to free fellow human beings from the intolerable bondage of 
slavery. But it wasn't as simple as that. There were other, less pure issues 
being fought over, with little concern for the souls which would perish for 
nothing more grand than political greed, corruption, and conniving for power. 
Matt, I saw a man with his face blown off and no mouth to scream with, and yet 
he screamed and could not die. I saw two brothers, and one was in blue and one 
was in grey, and I will not tell you which one took his saber and ran it through 
the other. Oh God, it was brother against brother, Cain and Abel all over again. 
And I was turned into Cain. What would God have to do with a nation where 
brothers can turn against each other with such brutality?" Bran stopped speaking 
as his voice broke on a sob.
Matthew put down his lap desk and drew his twin to him, and together they wept, 
as Bran poured out all the anguish and terror and nightmare he had lived 
through. And Matthew held him and drew the pain out and into his own heart.
When the torrent was spent, Bran looked at his twin. "Thank you."
244 
Matthew held him close. "You're back, Bran. We're together again."
"Yes. Forever."
"It's good to have you coming back to life."
"Coming back to life hurts. I need to take my pain away."
Matthew asked, startled, "What?"
"Matt, twin, I'm going away."
"What!" Matthew looked at Bran standing straight and strong before him. The 
yellow satin curtains warmed the light and brightened Bran's hair. "Where?"
"You'll never guess."
Matthew waited.
"Papa had a letter from Wales, from Cousin Michael. A group left for Patagonia 
to start a colony. They're there by now. I'm going to join them. How's that for 
an old dream come true?"
"We were going together . . ."
"Dear my twin, you're making a name for yourself here with your pen. I know that 
the creation of a story is work, even if Papa doesn't. But you couldn't manage a 
life of physical hardship such as I'll be having in the Welsh colony."
"You're right," Matthew acknowledged. "I'd be a burden."
"I won't be far from you, ever again," Bran assured him, "even in Patagonia. I 
promise to share it with you, and you'll be able to write stories about it as 
vividly as though you'd been there in body. Cousin Michael writes that the 
colony is settling in well, in a small section
245 
known as Vespugia, and I'll tell you everything about it, and describe a grand 
cast of characters for you."
"Have you told Zillah?"
Bran shook his head.
"Twin, this affects Zillah too, you know. She wears your ring."
"I'll tell everyone tonight at dinner. Ill get Mama to ask the Llawcaes."
Dinner was served in the dining room, a large, dark, oak-paneled chamber that 
seemed to drink in the light from the crystal chandelier. Heavy brown curtains 
like the ones in the library were drawn against the cold night. The fire burning 
brightly did little to warm the vast cavern.
During the meal, conversation was largely about the Welsh expedition to 
Patagonia, with both Mr. Maddox and Dr. Llawcae getting vicarious excitement out 
of the adventure.
"What fun," Gwen said. "Why don't you go, Papa? If I were a man, I would."
Matthew and Bran looked at each other across the table, but Bran shook his head 
slightly.
After dessert, when Mrs. Maddox pushed back her chair, nodding to Gwen and 
Zillah to follow her, Bran stopped them. "Wait, please, Mama. I have something 
to tell everybody. We've all enjoyed discussing the Pata-gonian expedition, and 
the founding of the colony in Vespugia. Years ago, before Matt's accident, we 
dreamed of joining the squire of Madrun when he made his
246 
journey to see if it would be a suitable place for a colony. So perhaps it won't 
surprise you that I have decided to join the colonists and make a new life for 
myself in Ves-pugia. Today I've written Cousin Michael and Mr. Parry in Wales, 
and sent letters to Vespugia."
For a moment there was stunned silence.
Bran broke it, smiling. "Dr. Llawcae says a warmer climate will be better for 
me."
Mr. Maddox asked, "Isn't going to Patagonia rather an excessive way to find a 
warmer climate? You could go south, to South Carolina or Georgia."
Bran's lips shut in a rigid expression of pain. "Papa, do you forget where I've 
come from and what I've been doing?"
Mrs. Maddox said, "No, son, your father does not forget. But the war is over, 
and you must put it behind you."
"In the South? I doubt I would be welcome in the Confederate states."
"But Vespugia-so far away-" Tears filled Mrs. Mad-dox's eyes. Zillah, her face 
pale but resolute, drew a fresh handkerchief from her reticule and handed it to 
her. "If you'd just continue to regain your strength, and go on studying Welsh 
with Matthew, and come into the business with your father-"
Bran shook his head. "Mama, you know that I cannot go into the business with 
Papa. And I have no talent, like Matthew's, which I could use here. It seems 
that the best way to pull myself together is to get out, and what better
247 
way to learn Welsh than to be with people who speak it all the time?"
Mr. Maddox spoke slowly, "You took me by surprise, son, but it does seem to be a 
reasonable solution for you, eh, Will?" He looked at the doctor, who was tamping 
his pipe.
"In a way, I identify with Madoc, Papa," Bran said. "Matt and I were rereading 
T. Gwynn Jones's poem about him this evening." He looked at Gwen. "Remember it?"
She sniffled. "I never read Welsh unless Papa forces
«
me.
"Madoc left Wales in deep despair because brother was fighting against brother, 
just as we did in this ghastly war, 'until it seemed as if God himself had 
withdrawn his care from the sons of men.' . . . ymdroi gyda diflastod as 
anobaith Madog wrth ystried cyflwr gwlad ei ededi-gaeih, Her oedd brawd un 
ymladd yn erbyn brawd hyd nes yr oedd petal Duw ei hun wedi peidio d gofalu am 
feibion dynion."
Mr. Maddox drew on his pipe. "You do remember."
"Good lad," Dr. Llawcae approved.
"I remember, and too well I understand, for there were many nights during the 
war when God withdrew from our battlefields. When the sons of men fight against 
each other in hardness of heart, why should God not withdraw? Slavery is evil, 
God knows, but war is evil, too, evil, evil."
Zillah pushed her empty dessert plate away and went
248 
to kneel by Bran, impulsively taking his hand and pressing it against her cheek.
He took her hand in his. "I went to war thinking that mankind is reasonable, and 
found that it is not. But it has always been so, and at last I am growing up, as 
Matthew grew up long before me. I know that he would give a great deal to come 
to Vespugia with me, and I to have him, but we both know that it cannot be."
Mrs. Maddox was still weeping into the handkerchief Zillah had given her. "Never 
again can there be a war that can do such terrible things to people."
Mr. Maddox said, "My dear, it is not good for us to keep reminding Bran of the 
war. Perhaps getting away from Merioneth and going to Vespugia will be the best 
way for him to forget."
Matthew looked at his father and saw him letting his dream of Maddox and Son 
disappear into the wilderness of Vespugia.
"Bran." Zillah rose and looked down at him.
"Little Zillah."
"I'm not little Zillah any more, Bran. You changed that the night before you 
went to war when you put this ring on my finger."
"Child," Dr. Llawcae remonstrated, "it is the dearest wish of my heart that 
Llawcaes and Maddoxes be once more united in marriage. I gave Bran my blessing 
when he came to me to ask for your hand. But not yet. You're only seventeen."
"Many women are married and mothers at seventeen. I want to go to Vespugia with 
Bran, as his wife."
249 249
"Zillah," Dr. Llawcae said, "you will wait. When Bran is settled, in a year or 
two, he can send for you."
Bran pressed Zillah's hand. "It needn't all be decided tonight."
In the end, Bran went with Gwen, not with Zillah. Mr. Maddox caught Gwen and 
Jack O'Keefe kissing behind the stable door, and announced flatly that she was 
to accompany her brother to Vespugia. No amount of tears, of hysterics from 
Gwen, of pleading from Mrs. Maddox, could change his stand.
Gwen and Zillah wept together. "It's not fair," Gwen sobbed. "A woman has no say 
in her own life. I hate men!"
Matthew tried to intercede with Dr. Llawcae for Zillah, but the doctor was 
adamant that she should wait at least until she was eighteen, and until Bran had 
suitable living arrangements.
Store and house were empty after they left. Matthew spent the morning working on 
accounts, and in the afternoon and evenings he stayed in his corner of the empty 
parlor, writing. His first novel was published and well received and he was hard 
at work on his second. It was this, and conversations with Zillah, who came 
frequently to Merioneth from Madrun, which kept him going.
"Bran's all right," he assured Zillah. "He sends love."
"They can't even have reached Vespugia yet," Zillah protested. "And there's 
certainly been no chance for him to send a letter."
"You know Bran and I don't need letters."
250 
She sighed. "I know. Will Bran and I ever be like that?"
"Yours will be a different kind of unity. Better, maybe, but different."
"Will he send for me?"
"You must give him time, Zillah-time once again. Time to settle into a new world 
and a new way of life. And time for your father to get used to the idea of 
having his only child go half the way across the world from him."
"How's Gwen?"
"Part sulking and feeling sorry for herself, and part enjoying all the sailors 
on the ship making cow's eyes at her and running to do her bidding. But she's 
not going to be happy in Vespugia. She's always hated hot weather, and she's 
never liked roughing it."
"No, she wasn't a tomboy, like me. She thought Father was terrible to let me run 
wild and play rough games with you and Bran. Will your father relent and let her 
come home?"
"Not while Jack's around. There's no second-guessing Papa, though, when he 
latches on to an unreasonable notion." He paused. "Remember the old Indian 
verses, Zillah?"
"About black hair and blue eyes?"
"Yes. They've been singing around in my head, and I can't get them out, 
especially one verse:
"Lords of spirit, Lords of breath, Lords of fireflies, stars, and light,
251 251
Who will keep the world from death? Who will stop the coming night? Blue eyes, 
blue eyes, have the sight."
"It's beautiful," Zillah said, "but I don't really know what it means."
"It's not to be taken literally. The Indians believed that as long as there was 
one blue-eyed child in each generation, all would be well."
"But it wasn't, was it? They've been long gone from around here."
"I think it was a bigger all-rightness than just for their tribe. Anyhow, both 
you and Gwen have at least a drop of Indian blood, and you both have the blue 
eyes of the song."
"So, in a way," Zillah said dreamily, "we're the last of the People of the Wind. 
Unless-"
Matthew smiled at her. "I think you're meant to have a black-haired, blue-eyed 
baby."
"When?" Zillah demanded. "Bran's a world away from me. And I'll be old and 
white-haired and wrinkled before Papa realizes I'm grown up and lets me go." She 
looked at him anxiously.
Matthew's work began to receive more and more critical acclaim, and Mr. Maddox 
began thinking of it as something 'real/ rather than fanciful scribbling not to 
be taken seriously. One of the unused downstairs rooms was fixed up as a study, 
and Dr. Llawcae designed a larger and more efficient lap desk.
252 
The study was at the back of the house and looked across the lawn to the woods, 
and in the autumn Matthew feasted on the glory of the foliage. The room was 
sparsely furnished, at his request, with a black leather couch on which he could 
rest when sitting became too painful. As the cold weather set in, he began more 
and more often to spend the nights there. In front of the fireplace was a 
butler's table and a comfortable lady chair upholstered in blue, the color of 
Zillah's eyes: Zillah's chair, he thought of it.
It was midsummer before letters began to arrive on a regular basis. True to his 
promise, Bran sent Matthew vivid descriptions:
How amazingly interconnected everything is, at least to us who have Welsh blood 
in our veins. My closest friends here are Richard Llawcae, his wife, and his son 
Rich. They must be at least distant kin to all of us, for Llawcae is not a 
common name, even in Wales. Richard says they have forebears who emigrated to 
the New World in the very early days, and then went back to Wales, for nothing 
there was as bad as the witch-hunting in the Pilgrim villages and towns. One of 
their ancestors was burned, they think, or nearly so. They don't know exactly 
where they came from, but probably around Salem.
Rich has eyes for no one but Gwen, and I wish she would see and return his love, 
for I can think of no one I'd rather have as a brother-in-law. But Gwen sees 
Gedder before Rich. Gedder is taller and bigger and stronger-perhaps-and 
certainly more flamboyant. He worries me. Zillie has told me of his fierce 
ambitions, and his manner toward all of us becomes a little more
253 253
lordly every day. God knows he is helpful-if it weren't for the Indians, I'm not 
sure the colony would have survived, for everything is different from at home- 
times for planting, what to plant, how to irrigate, etc. We are grateful indeed 
that the Indians not only have been friendly but have given us all the help they 
could. Yet I could wish Gedder had been more like his brethren and not so pushy 
and bossy. None of us likes the way Gedder treats his sister, as though she were 
his slave and inferior.
It is astounding how Zillie has the same features as Gwen and Zillah, the 
wide-apart eyes with the faintest suggestion of a tilt-though hers are a warm 
brown, and not blue-and the high cheekbones and delicate nose. And, of course, 
the straight, shining black hair. People have remarked on the likeness between 
Gwen and Zillie. I haven't talked with anyone except the Llawcaes about the 
Madoc legend following us to Vespugia, and they don't laugh it away. Truly, 
truth is stranger than fiction. Put it into a story for me, Matt.
-I will, Matthew promised silently. -I will. But you must tell me more.
My house is nearly finished, large and airy, with verandas. Everyone knows that 
it is being built for my bride, and for our children. Zillie often comes and 
stands, just out of the way, and looks, and that makes me uncomfortable. I don't 
think she comes of her own volition. I think Gedder sends her. I talk much about 
my Zillah, and how I long for the day when she will arrive. Matthew, twin, use 
your influence on Dr. LJawcae to let her come soon. Why is he keeping her with 
him? I need her, now.
254 
As winter closed in and Matthew could not go out of doors, Zillah began to come 
from Madrun to Merioneth nearly every day at teatime, and Matthew missed her 
more than he liked to admit when she did not appear. He was hurrying to finish 
his second novel, considerably more ambitious than the first, but he tired 
quickly, and lay on the black couch, reaching out to Bran and Vespugia, all 
through the winter, the summer, and into a second winter. He felt closer to his 
twin than ever, and when he neared the shallows of sleep he felt that he 
actually was in arid Vespugia, part of all that was happening in the tight-knit 
colony.
In the mornings, when he worked with his soft, dark pencil and large note pad, 
it was as though he were setting down what he had seen and heard the night 
before.
"You're pale, Matt," Zillah said one afternoon as she sat in the lady chair and 
poured his tea.
"It's this bitter cold. Even with the fire going constantly, the damp seeps into 
my bones."
He turned away from her concern and looked out the window at the night drawing 
in. "I have to get my book finished, and there's not much time. I have a large 
canvas, going all the way back to the Welsh brothers who fought over Owain of 
Gwynedd's throne. Madoc and his brother, Gwydyr, left Wales, and came to a place 
which I figure to have been somewhere near here, when the valley was still a 
lake left from the melting of the ice. And once again brothers fought. Gwydyr 
wanted power, wanted adulation. Over and over again we get
255 255
caught in fratricide, as Bran was in that ghastly war. We're still bleeding from 
the wounds. It's a primordial pattern, left us from Cain and Abel, a net we 
can't seem to break out of. And unless it is checked it will destroy us 
entirely."
She clasped her hands. "Will it be checked?" He turned back toward her. "I don't 
know, Zillah. When I sleep I have dreams, and I see dark and evil things, 
children being killed by hundreds and thousands in terrible wars which sweep 
over them." He reached for her hand. "I do not croak doom casually, f'annwyl. I 
do not know what is going to happen. And irrationally, perhaps, I am positive 
that what happens in Vespugia is going to make a difference. Read me the letter 
from Bran that came today once more, please."
She took the letter from the tea table and held it to the lamp.
Dear my twin, and dear my Zillah, when are you coming? Matthew, if you cannot 
bring Zillah to me, then Zillah must bring you. She writes that the winter is 
hard on you, and she is worried. There would be much to hold your attention 
here. Llewellyn Pugh languishes for love of Zillie, and I think she would turn 
to him did Gedder not keep forcing her on me, no matter how loudly I say that I 
am betrothed, and that my Zillah is coming to join us any day now. Do not make 
me a liar! We have had our first death, and a sad one it was, too. The children 
are forbidden to climb up onto the cliff which protects the colony from the 
winds, but somehow or other, one of them managed the steep climb, and fell. We 
all grieve. It may be a good thing
256 
that there is so much work for everybody that there is little idle time, and 
this helps us all, particularly the parents of the little one. Rich has been a 
tower of strength. He was the one of us who was able to bring tears from the 
mother, partly because he was not ashamed to weep himself,
"He is a good man, that Rich," Matthew said. "He'd do anything in the world for 
Gwen."
"You talk as though you know him."
Matthew smiled at her. "I do. I know him through Bran. And through my novel. 
What happens with Rich, with Bran, with Gwen, with Zillie-it matters to my 
story. It could even change it." She looked at him ques-tioningly. "This book is 
pushing me, Zillah, making me write it. It excites me, and it drives me. In its 
pages, myth and matter merge. What happens in one time can make a difference in 
what happens in another time, far more than we realize. What Gedder does is 
going to make a difference, to the book, perhaps to the world. Nothing, no one, 
is too small to matter. What you do is going to make a difference."
In the early winter Matthew caught a heavy chest cold, which weakened him, and 
Dr. Llawcae came daily. Matthew spent the days on the black leather couch, 
wrapped in blankets. He continued to work on his novel and sold several more 
stories. He kept his earnings, which were considerable, in a small safe in his 
study. And now he left the study not at all.
257 257
When he was too exhausted to write, he slid into a shallow sleep, filled with 
vivid dreams in which Bran and the Vespugian colony were more real than chilly 
Merioneth.
He was at the flat rock in his dream, the rock where he used to meet Zillah when 
he sought privacy. But instead of Zillah there was a boy, perhaps twelve years 
old, dressed in strange, shabby clothes. The boy was lying on the rock, and he, 
too, was dreaming, and his dream and Matthew's merged.
Gedder is after Gwen. Stop him. The baby must come from Madoc. Gwydyr's line is 
tainted. There is nothing left but pride and greed for power and revenge. Stop 
him, Matthew.
He saw his twin, but this was not Bran in Vespugia . . . Was it Bran? It was a 
young man, about their age, standing by a lake. Behind him stood another, a 
little older, who looked like Bran and yet not like Bran, for there was 
resentment behind the eyes. Like Gedder. The two began to wrestle, to engage in 
mortal combat.
At the edge of the lake a huge pile of flowers smoldered, with little red 
tongues of flame licking the petals of the roses-
"Matthew!"
He opened his eyes and his mother was hovering over him with a cup of camomile 
tea.
Beside the growing pages of the manuscript lay a genealogy which he had 
carefully worked out, a genealogy which could go in two different directions, 
like a double
258 
helix. In one direction there was hope; in the other, disaster. And the book and 
Bran and the Vespugian colony were intertwined in his mind and heart.
The winter was bitter cold.
"As the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen," Matthew said to 
Dr. Llawcae, who listened gravely to Matthew's heart and his chest.
He leaned back and looked at the young man. "Matthew, you are encouraging 
Zillah."
Matthew smiled. "I've always encouraged Zillah, from the days when we were all 
children and she wanted to climb trees as high as Bran and I did."
"That's not what I mean. You're encouraging her in this wild-goose chase to go 
to Vespugia and join Bran."
"When Bran asked you for Zillah's hand, you gave him your blessing," Matthew 
reminded the doctor.
"That was with the understanding that Bran would stay here and become his 
father's partner."
"Once a blessing is given, Dr. Llawcae, it cannot be withdrawn." Matthew urged, 
"Zillah's heart is in Vespugia with Bran. I understand how she has taken her 
mother's place in your house and at your table. But she is your daughter, Dr. 
Llawcae, and not your wife, and you must not keep her tied to you."
The doctor's face flushed darkly with anger. "How dare you!"
"Because I love Zillah with all my heart, and I always have. I will miss her as 
much as you. Without Zillah,
259 259
without Bran, I would be bereft of all that makes Me worthwhile. But I will not 
hold them back out of selfishness."
The doctor's face grew darker. "You are accusing me of selfishness?"
"Inadvertent, perhaps, but selfishness, nonetheless." "You-you-if you weren't a 
cripple, I'd-" Dr. Llaw-cae dropped his raised hand, turned, and left the room.
One afternoon in March, with occasional splatters of rain coming down the 
chimney and hissing out in the fire, Matthew looked intensely at Zillah, 
presiding over the tea tray. "Zillah. It's time. You must go to Vespugia."
'You know I want to." She reached out to hold his thin fingers. "Father says 
maybe next year."
"Next year's too late. Bran needs you now. What are you going to do about your 
father? Next year will always be next year. He'll not let you go."
She stared into the fire. "I'd rather go with Father's blessing, but I'm afraid 
you're right, and he's not going to give it. The problem is money, and finding a 
ship, and booking passage-all the things that are difficult, if not impossible, 
for a girl."
"You must go, this spring as soon as the ice breaks and ships can sail."
"Why, Matt, such urgency, all of a sudden?"
"Bran reached out to me last night-"
"Is something wrong?"
"Not with Bran. But Gedder-Rich-" He was seized
260 
with a fit of coughing, and when he leaned back he was too weak to talk.
Zillah continued to come daily to sit in the lady chair by the fire, to preside 
over the tea tray, and warm him with her smile. For the next few weeks he did 
not mention her going to Vespugia. Then one day, when the bare outlines of the 
trees were softened with coming buds, he greeted her impatiently.
He could hardly wait for her to sit down behind the tea tray. "Zillah, open the 
safe." Carefully, he gave her the combination, watching her fingers twirl the 
dial as she listened. "All right. Good. Bring out that big manila envelope. It's 
for you."
She looked at him in surprise. "For me?"
"I've been busy these last weeks."
"Father says you're pushing yourself too hard. Is the book done?"
"To all intents and purposes. There's some deepening to do, and a certain amount 
of revision. But I've been busy in other ways. Open the envelope."
She did so. "Money, and-what's this, Matt?"
"A ticket. There's a ship sailing for South America in four days. You must be on 
it."
"But, Matthew, I can't let you-"
"I've earned the money by my writing. It's mine to do with what I will. Zillah, 
Bran needs you. You must go. You will swing the balance."
"What balance?"
261 
"The line must be Madoc's and not Gwydyr's-"
"I don't understand. You're flushed. Are you-"
"I'm not feverish. It's part of the book . . . You do love Bran?"
"With all my heart."
"Enough to leave Madrun without your father's blessing, and secretly?"
She held the manila envelope to her breast.
"You'll go?"
"Ill go." She took his cold hand and held it to her cheek.
"All will be well," he promised. "When thou passest through the waters, I will 
be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou 
walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame 
kindle upon thee. For the fire is roses, roses . . ."
He did not see her again. Neither could bear the pain of parting.
Dr. Llawcae came storming over to Merioneth. Matthew could hear him shouting, 
"Where did she get the money? How did she get the passage?"
Matthew smiled, fleetingly grateful that Dr. Llawcae considered him such a 
cripple that he could not possibly have made the necessary arrangements.
When the doctor came into the study to check Matthew's heart, his temper had 
cooled enough so that he was no longer shouting. "I suppose you're pleased about 
this?"
262 
"Zillah and Bran love each other," Matthew replied quietly. "It is right that 
they be together. And you have always been so interested in your Welsh heritage, 
and in this colony, that you will end up feeling differently. You can visit 
them-"
"Easy enough to say. What about my practice?"
"You haven't taken a vacation in years. You've earned a few weeks away."
Dr. Llawcae gave him only a cursory examination, saying, "You'll feel better 
when warmer weather comes."
Summer was slow in coming.
Matthew sent the book off to his publisher. The pain in his back was worse each 
day, and his heart skipped and galloped out of control. In his dreams he was 
with Bran, waiting for Zillah. He was with Gwen, still resentful, but beginning 
to laugh again with Rich, to respond to his steadfast love, his outgoing ways. 
At the same time she was still intrigued by Gedder, by his fierce dark looks and 
the hiddenness behind his eyes, so unlike Rich's candid ones. She knew that Rich 
loved her, but Gedder's strangeness fascinated her.
She's playing with Rich and Gedder and it will make trouble, the boy on the rock 
told Matthew as he slipped deeper into the dream.
Gedder and Bran. Standing on the cliff and looking down at the houses of the 
settlement. Gedder urging Bran to marry Zillie, to give Gwcn in marriage to him, 
in order to secure the future.
"What future?" Bran asked.
263 263
Gedder looked appraisingly down at the prospering colony. "Ours."
And Zillie came and looked adoringly at Bran, Zillie so like and so unlike 
Zillah.
Wait, twin! Wait for Zillah! Do not trust Gedder-
Matthew was jolted out of the dream as his supper tray was brought. He ate a few 
bites, then pushed the tray away and slid back into the dream
Felt the Vespugian heat, warming his chilled bones
Bran, if only I could have come with Zillah
Gedder again. Gedder in his favorite place up on the cliff's lip, looking down 
on the colony, the colony he wants for his own.
Someone's with him. Not Bran. Rich.
Quarreling. Quarreling over Gwen, over the colony. Quarreling at the cliff's 
edge.
Danger.
Matthew stirred restlessly on the couch, his eyes tightly closed. The boy was 
there, the child from another time, urging him. "Matthew, you must help Rich. 
Please . . ."
Once upon a time and long ago, men did not quarrel in this way, when the morning 
stars sang together and the children of men shouted for joy
But dissonance came
Madoc and Gwydyr fought
Gedder and Rich
Rich, watch out! Gedder has a knife-
Rich sees, sees in time, grasps the knife hand, twists it, so that the knife 
drops. Gedder reaches after it,
264 264A Swiftly Tilting Planet
snarling with anger, reaching for the knife so that he loses his balance and 
falls-falls after the knife, over the edge of the cliff, falls, falls . . .
Zillie screams and cannot stop screaming.
Matthew waited for the next letter from Bran, but it did not come until the 
lilac bushes were in full bloom.
My very dear twin,
Zillah is here, at last she is here, but my dearest heart has arrived to a 
community in confusion and desolation. Gwen weeps and will not stop. Zillie's 
tears no longer flow, but her eyes hold anguish. Gedder is dead, and- 
inadvertently-by Rich's hand. Gedder provoked a quarrel, and drew a knife. Rich 
took the knife from him, and Gedder, lunging after it, lost his balance and fell 
from the cliff to his death. It was an accident; nobody blames Rich, even 
Zillie. But Rich feels he cannot stay here with us, not with blood on his hands.
Will it ever cease, the turning of brother against brother? Gedder wanted power, 
and I cannot grieve for his death, only for his life, with its inordinate lust 
and pride. Why does Gwen weep? I do not think she knows. 'I am homesick,' she 
cries, 'I want to go home.' So Rich will take her home. And what will happen 
then, who knows?
Gwydyr fought Madoc and lost and the battle continued through to Gedder, brother 
against brother
And the ship which brought Zillah carried Gwen and Rich to the Northern 
continent, to lilies of the valley and lilacs in the dooryard, to Merioneth and 
the store,
265 265
and Papa will at last have his partner, and the store will be Maddox and Llawcae 
Oh, Zillah, my Zillah
Lords of melody and song, Lords of roses burning bright, Blue will right the 
ancient wrong, Though the way is dark and long, Blue will shine with loving 
light.
A coughing fit jerked Matthew awake, away from Vespugia, from Bran and Zillah.
"Gwen-" he gasped, "Rich- Can't wait-sorry-" Then the coughing took him, and 
when the racking had passed, there was nothing but agony. His back was an 
explosion of pain and the room began to get dark, and a rank stink like spoiling 
flowers choked him. There was no longer any light or warmth in the crackling 
flames . . .
"Matthew!" Meg opened her eyes, and she was calling the name aloud. The kitten, 
disturbed, jumped down from the bed. Ananda did not move.
-What happened? What happened to Matthew? to Charles Wallace? Is Charles Wallace 
all right?
-Strange, she thought, -the kythe with Matthew was clearer than any since 
Harcels. Maybe because Matthew and Bran were kythers.
She reached out to Charles Wallace, and felt only absence. Nor did she sense 
Gaudior. Always, when Charles Wallace was brought out of Within, she could see 
him, could see the unicorn.
266 
"I'm going downstairs," she said aloud, and pushed her feet into her slippers.
Ananda followed her downstairs, stepping on the seventh step so that it let out 
a loud groan, and the dog yelped in surprise. Behind them the kitten padded 
softly, so light that the seventh step made the merest sigh.
The kitchen fire was blazing, the kettle humming. Everything looked warm and 
comfortable and normal, except for Mrs. O'Keefe in the rocking chair. The kitten 
padded across to her and jumped up on her lap, purring, and flexing its sharp 
little claws.
Meg asked, "Charles Wallace isn't back yet?"
"Not yet. Are you all right, Meg?" her mother asked.
"I'm fine."
"You look pale."
"Maybe I'll take Sandy and Dennys up on their offer of bouillon, if it's still 
good."
"Sure, Sis," Sandy said. "I'll make it. Chicken or beef?"
"Half a spoon of each, please, and a slosh of lemon juice." She looked at the 
twins with fresh comprehension. Was she closer to Charles Wallace than to the 
twins because they were twins, sufficient unto themselves? She glanced at the 
phone, then at her mother-in-law. "Mom- Beezie, do you remember Zillah?"
Mrs. O'Keefe looked at Meg, nodded her head, shook it, closed her eyes.
"Mom, Zillah really did get to Vespugia, didn't she?" Meg looked at the old 
woman, needing reassurance.
Mrs. O'Keefe huddled her arms about herself and rocked. "I forget. I forget."
267 267
Mrs. Murry looked anxiously at her daughter. "Meg, what is this?"
"It makes all the difference who Branzillo's forebears were."
Sandy handed Meg a steaming cup. "Sis, the past has happened. Knowing who 
Branzillo's ancestors were can't change anything."
"There was a time when it hadn't happened yet," Meg tried to explain, realizing 
how strange she sounded. "It's the Might-Have-Been Charles Wallace was to 
change, and I think he's changed it. It's the charge Mom O'Keefe laid on him 
when she gave him the rune."
"Stop talking!" Mrs. O'Keefe pushed herself up out of the rocking chair. "Take 
me to Chuck. Quickly. Before it's too late."
268 Between myself and the powers of darkness
They ran, pelting across the frozen ground, which crunched under their feet, Meg 
and the twins and. Mrs. O'Keefe. They ran across the rimed lawn and through the 
aisles of the twins' Christmas trees to the stone wall.
Meg held her hand out to Mrs. O'Keefe and helped her over the low wall. Then, 
still holding her mother-in-law's hand, pulling her along, she ran down the 
path, past the two large glacial rocks, to the star-watching rock.
Charles Wallace was lying there, eyes closed, white as death.
"Beezie!" Meg cried. "The rune! Quickly!"
269 Between myself and the powers of darkness269
Mrs. O'Keefe was panting, her hand pressed to her side. "With me . . ." She 
gasped. "Grandma . . ."
Dennys knelt on the rock, bending over Charles Wallace, feeling for his pulse.
"With Chuck in this fateful hour," Mrs. O'Keefe gasped, and Meg joined in, her 
voice clear and strong:
"I place all Heaven with its power And the sun with its brightness, And the snow 
with its whiteness, And the fire with all the strength it hath, And the 
lightning with its rapid wrath, And the winds with their swiftness along their 
path, And the sea with its deepness, And the rocks with their steepness, And the 
earth with its starkness, Att these I place
By God's almighty help and grace Between myself and the powers of darkness!"
Light returned slowly. There had been pain, and darkness, and all at once the 
pain was relieved, and light touched his lids. He opened them, to the sharpness 
of starlight. He was lying on the star-watching rock, with Gaudior anxiously 
bending over him, tickling his cheek with the curly silver beard.
"Gaudior, what happened?"
"We barely got you out in time."
"Did Matthew-"
"He died. We didn't expect it quite so soon. The Echthroi-"
"I guess we got to 1865 after all." Charles Wallace looked up at the stars.
270 
"Stand up." Gaudior sounded cross. "I don't like to see you lying there. I 
thought you were never going to open your eyes."
Charles Wallace scrambled to his feet, lifted one leg, then the other. "How 
strange to be able to use my legs again-how wonderful."
Gaudior knelt beside him. "Climb."
Charles Wallace, legs shaky as though from long disuse, clambered onto the great 
back.
He rode a Gaudior who had become as tiny as a dragonfly, rode among the 
fireflies, joining their brilliant dance, twinkling, blinking, shooting over the 
star-watching rock, over the valley, singing their song, and he was singing, 
too, and he was himself, and yet he was all he had learned, he carried within 
himself Brandon and Chuck and their song and the song was glory . . .
And he rode a Gaudior who had become as large as a constellation, rode among the 
galaxies, and he was himself, and he was also Madoc, and he was Matthew, Matthew 
flying through showers of stars, caught up in the joy of the music of the 
spheres . . .
part of the harmony, part of the joy
The silver neigh of the unicorn sounded all about the star-watching rock, 
rippling over Meg and the twins, Mrs. O'Keefe and Charles, and the night was 
illumined by the flash of the horn, blinding them with oblivion as it pointed at 
each of them in turn.
271 Between myself and the powers of darkness271
Meg thought she heard Charles Wallace call, "Gaudior, goodbye-oh, Gaudior, 
goodbye . . ."
Who was Gaudior?
She knew once who Gaudior was.
Again she heard his silver knell ringing in farewell.
Sandy asked, "Hey, did you see lightning?"
Dennys looked bewildered. "It's too cold. And look at all the stars."
"What was that flash, then?"
"Beats me. Like everything else tonight. Charles, what was with you? I couldn't 
find a pulse and then suddenly it throbbed under my fingers."
Slowly, color was returning to the boy's cheeks. "You came just in time." He 
looked at Mrs. O'Keefe, who still had her hand to her side and was breathing 
with painful gasps. "Beezie. Thank you." There was infinite sadness in his 
voice.
"That's what Meg called her," Sandy said. "What is all this?"
"Mom O'Keefe laid a charge on me . . ."
Dennys said, "We told you it was nuts for you to think you could stop Branzillo 
single-handed. Did you fall asleep or something? You could have got frostbite." 
He sounded concerned and uncertain.
"Come on in, now," Sandy added, "and no more of this nonsense."
"After the President's call, you call it nonsense?" Meg demanded fiercely.
272 
"Meg, you shouldn't be out in the cold," Dennys objected.
"I'm all right."
Charles Wallace took Mrs. O'Keefe's hands in his. "Thank you."
"Chuck's no idiot." Mrs. O'Keefe thumped Charles Wallace on the shoulder.
"Come on," Sandy urged. "Let's get moving."
Dennys held Mrs. O'Keefe's arm. "We'll help you."
They returned to the house, Sandy and Dennys supporting Mrs. O'Keefe; Meg 
holding Charles Wallace's hand as though they were both small children once 
more.
Ananda greeted them ecstatically.
Mrs. Murry hurried to her youngest son, but refrained from touching him. "She's 
really adopted us, hasn't she? You'd think she'd been with us forever."
"Watch out for that tail." Mr. Murry moved between the dog and the model of the 
tesseract. "A couple of indiscriminate wags and you could undo years of work." 
He turned to his daughter. "Meg, you shouldn't have gone out in this weather 
with your cold."
"It's all right, Father. My cold's better and I didn't get chilled. Did the 
President-"
"No. Nothing yet."
Meg tried to think. What did she remember? The President's call, of course. Mrs. 
O'Keefe's rune, and the response of the weather. The coming of Ananda. Kything
273 Between myself and the powers of darkness273
with Charles Wallace in the attic, kything through aeons of time, kything which 
had faded to dreams because the unicorn-
A unicorn. That was absurd.
There was Mrs. O'Keefe's phone call in the middle of the night. Sandy went for 
her and brought her back to the house, and she had an old letter-who was it 
from? What did it say?
"Well, Charles." Mr. Murry regarded his son gravely. "How about the charge?"
Charles Wallace did not reply immediately. He was studying the model of the 
tesseract, and he touched one of the Lucite rods carefully, so that the entire 
model began to vibrate, to hum softly, throwing off sparkles of brilliance. "We 
still don't know much about time, do we? I think-" He looked bewildered. 
"Father, I think it's going to be all right. But not because I was intelligent, 
or brave, or in control. Meg was right, earlier this evening, when she talked 
about everything, everywhere, interre-acting."
"You were gone longer than we expected."
"I was gone a long time. An incredibly long time."
"But what did you do?" Sandy asked.
"And where did you go?" Dennys added.
"Mostly I stayed right by the star-watching rock-"
"Father!" Meg exclaimed. "The letter Mom O'Keefe brought. Charles hasn't seen 
it."
Mrs. O'Keefe held out the yellowed paper to Mr. Murry.
274 Swiftly Tilting Planet
"Please read it to me, Father." Charles Wallace looked pale and exhausted.
"My dear Gwen and Rich," Mr. Murry read,
Thank you for writing us so promptly of Papa's death. Zillah and I are grateful 
that he died peacefully in his sleep, with none of the suffering he feared. I 
know that you both, and little Zillah, are a consolation for Mama. And Papa had 
the satisfaction of having Rich for his partner, and of knowing that the name of 
Maddox and Llawcae will not be lost, for our young Rich talks with great 
enthusiasm about going to Merioneth when he is old enough.
Our little Matthew is a rapidly growing boy. I had hoped that as he grew out of 
babyhood he would be called Matthew, but he keeps the nickname given him by the 
Indian children, Branzillo, a combination of my name and Zillah's. Little Rich 
tries to keep up with his big brother in every way . . .
Mr. Murry looked up. "The letter breaks off there. Strange-it seems diff-is that 
what I read before?"
Mrs. Murry frowned slightly. "I'm not sure. It didn't sound quite-but we're all 
exhausted with strain and lack of sleep. Memory plays queer tricks at times like 
this."
"It has to be what Father read before," Sandy said flatly. "It offends my 
reasonable mind, but it really does seem possible that Branzillo's forebears 
came from around here."
"The letter did come from Mrs. O'Keefe's attic," Dennys said. "So it's even 
likely that he's distantly descended
275 Between myself and the powers of darkness275
from her forebears, and that would make them umpteenth cousins."
Sandy protested, "But what effect could that have on his starting a nuclear war? 
Or-we hope-on not starting one?"
Charles Wallace turned away from the argument, looked once more at the 
tesseract, then went to Mrs. O'Keefe, who was once again huddled in the rocking 
chair in front of the fire. Meg left the twins and followed Charles Wallace.
"Beezie," he asked softly, "what happened to Chuck?"
-Beezie, Chuck. They were in the vanishing kythe. Meg stepped closer to the 
rocker to hear Mrs. O'Keefe's reply.
"He died," she said bleakly.
"How?"
"They took him away and put him in an institution. He died there, six months 
later."
Charles Wallace expelled a long, sad breath. "Oh, Beezie, Beezie. And the baby?"
"Took after Duthbert Mortmain. Died in the State Penitentiary. Embezzlement. Let 
it be. What's done's done. What's gone's gone."
Ananda pressed against Meg, and she stroked the raised head.
Beezie. Chuck. Paddy O'Keefe. The kythe flickered briefly in Meg's mind. Beezie 
must have married Paddy for more or less the same reasons that her mother had 
married Duthbert Mortmain. And she learned not to feel, not to love, not even 
her children, not even Calvin.
276 
Not to be hurt. But she gave Charles Wallace the rune, and told him to use it to 
stop Mad Dog Branzillo. So there must be a little of the Old Music left in her.
"Matthew's book," Charles Wallace said. "It's happening, all that he wrote."
The phone rang.
Mrs. Murry looked toward her husband, but did not speak.
They waited tensely.
"Yes, Mr. President?" Mr. Murry listened, and as he listened, he smiled. "El 
Zarco is setting up a Congress for the working out of peace plans and the 
equitable distribution and preservation of the earth's resources. What's that, 
Mr. President? He wants me to come as an advisor on the use of space for peace? 
Well, yes, of course, for a few weeks . . . This is splendid news. Thank you for 
calling." He put down the receiver and turned to his family.
"El Zarco-" Meg whispered.
"Madog Branzillo's favorite nickname, you know that," her father said. "The 
Blue-eyed."
"But his threats-"
Her father looked at her in surprise. "Threats?"
"Of war-"
Everybody except Charles Wallace and Mrs. O'Keefe was looking at her.
"The phone call before dinner-" she said. "Wasn't the President afraid of war?"
"El Zarco has put down the militant members of his cabinet. He's always been 
known as a man of peace."
277 Between myself and the powers of darkness277
Charles Wallace spoke softly, so only Meg could hear. "They haven't traveled 
with a unicorn, Meg. There was no El Rabioso for them. When Matthew sent Zillah 
to marry Bran, and when Gedder was killed, that was the Might-Have-Been. El 
Rabioso was never born. It's always been El Zarco." He held her hand so tightly 
that it hurt.
Mrs. O'Keefe looked at Meg, nodding. "Baby will be born."
"Oh, Mom," Meg cried. "Will you be glad to be a grandmother?"
"Too late," the old woman said. "Take me home. Chuck and Grandma are waiting for 
me."
"What's that?" Mr. Murry asked.
"Chuck and Grandma-never mind. Just take me home."
"Ill drive you," Mr. Murry said.
Meg kissed her mother-in-law good night. It was the first time she had ever 
kissed her. "See you, Mom. See you soon."
When the car drove off, Dennys turned to his sister. "I'm not sure she'll make 
it to be a grandmother, Meg. I think her heart's running out."
"Why?"
"Badly swollen ankles. Blue tinge to her fingernails and lips. Shortness of 
breath."
"She ran all the way to the star-watching rock."
"She was short of breath before then. It's a wonder it didn't kill her. And what 
all that was about I'll never know."
"This whole evening's confusing," Sandy agreed. "I
278 
suggest we just forget it and go to bed. And Mrs. O'Keefe would never have made 
it back without Dennys and me, Meg. But you're right, Mother, she's quite an old 
girl."
"She is, indeed," Mrs. Murry agreed. "And I agree with you, Sandy, about getting 
to bed. Meg, you need your sleep."
The baby within Meg stirred. "You're more than right about Mom O'Keefe, Mother, 
more right than any of us could possibly have imagined. There's much much more 
to her than meets the eye. I hate the thought of losing her, just as we're 
discovering her."
Charles Wallace had once again been contemplating the intricate model of the 
tesseract. He spoke softly to his sister. "Meg, no matter what happens, even if 
Dennys is right about her heart, remember that it was herself she placed, for 
the baby's sake, and yours, and Calvin's, and all of us-"
Meg looked at him questioningly.
Charles Wallace's eyes as he returned her gaze were the blue of light as it 
glances off a unicorn's horn, pure and clear and infinitely deep. "In this 
fateful hour, it was herself she placed between us and the powers of darkness."