Read Online A Swiftly Tilting Planet by Madeleine L'Engle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Madeleine L'Engle
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as though it 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 clunkings 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 abandonedhis 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.
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 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, with 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?”
When the strange duet was ended, the old man held up his hand in a gesture of blessing. “It is the day, my farsent son.”
“It is the day, my to-be-father. Madoc, son of Owain, king of Gwynedd, will be Madoc,
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 clunkings 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 abandonedhis 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.
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 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, with 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?”
When the strange duet was ended, the old man held up his hand in a gesture of blessing. “It is the day, my farsent son.”
“It is the day, my to-be-father. Madoc, son of Owain, king of Gwynedd, will be Madoc,
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