A Swiftly Tilting Planet: Chapters 1–2

A delectable smell of roasting turkey came from the oven, and her mother stood by the stove, stirring the giblet gravy.

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.

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.

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 woman like her mother.

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.

Mrs. O’Keefe continued to stare morosely into the fire.

She listened, intently, while her father continued to hold the phone to his ear.

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.

“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.

She stirred the gravy, then stretched her hands out to her husband in supplication.

“El Rabioso seems singularly appropriate for a man who overthrew the democratic government with a wild and bloody coup d'état. He is mad, indeed, and there is no reason in him.”

“—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.”

“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.

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.

Calvin’s mother had always been taciturn. At home she had communicated largely in grunts.

“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.

“Set great store on it to ward off the dark.”

Mrs. O’Keefe put a gnarled hand on Meg’s shoulder and pressed down heavily as though it helped her to remember.

“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—”

The flames in the fireplace dwindled.

“...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.”

Mrs. O’Keefe cackled without mirth.

“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.”

Meg’s voice faltered again.

“Father,” Sandy chided, “you’re a pure scientist. You can’t take that old woman seriously.”

Mr. Murry got a bottle of brandy and poured it liberally over the pudding.

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.

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.

Meg wondered if she would ever again sleep in that secure way, relinquishing consciousness without fear of what might happen during the night.

The kitten stretched and yawned and slept, and its very indifference was a comfort.

In the kitchen she saw her parents and Charles Wallace all stroking a large, nondescript dog.

“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.”

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.

Ananda’s amber eyes looked at her imploringly and she whined softly.

The boy’s own breath was rapid, not so much with apprehension as with excitement and anticipation.

One silver-shod hoof pawed lightly, and the rock rang with clarion sound.

“Gaudior. That’s Latin for more joyful.” The unicorn neighed in acquiescence.

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.