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
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
.”
“Indeed, 1865 was quite a year,” Dennys said. “What have you learned, Meg?”
“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 consommé 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
Poèmes saturniens
, and John Stuart Mill wrote
Auguste Comte 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 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 rightup there with Hawthorne and James. It was a strange book, passionately antiwar, 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 Walesand Vespugia in 1865. But what did 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.
SIX
The lightning with its rapid wrath
Thanks, Meg,” Charles Wallace whispered. “Oh, Gaudior, 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.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
.”
“Indeed, 1865 was quite a year,” Dennys said. “What have you learned, Meg?”
“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 consommé 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
Poèmes saturniens
, and John Stuart Mill wrote
Auguste Comte 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 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 rightup there with Hawthorne and James. It was a strange book, passionately antiwar, 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 Walesand Vespugia in 1865. But what did 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.
SIX
The lightning with its rapid wrath
Thanks, Meg,” Charles Wallace whispered. “Oh, Gaudior, 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.
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