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 were a forestof 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.
“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 willhave 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?”
“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 ceased.
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. 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 openyour mouth and spill everything out when to do so would bring no good.”
Brandon ducked his head shyly,
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 were a forestof 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.
“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 willhave 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?”
“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 ceased.
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. 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 openyour mouth and spill everything out when to do so would bring no good.”
Brandon ducked his head shyly,
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